Indonesia: Life In The Islands

And They Still Probably Failed...

2007-08-24T05:58:00.000+08:00

Birthday Wishes from the Other Side of the World...

2007-07-24T10:50:00.000+08:00

This is the e-mail one of my students from SMA 3 Malang just sent me. I miss them so much--thanks for thinking of me, Wenty! (sidenote: I probably should have covered a few lessons on punctuation, but oh well.)

Hi...
How are u ms. caitLin?
Long time not to see

First,,
I want to say HappY Birthday to u,,
I know u'r birtday on Last wednesday (18th July)

I hope, all of ur wish will come true

He...he.. ^_^!!

Let me sing for you:::

Hapy birthday.....
Hapy birthday....
Hapy birthday..........
toooo......................
youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

Frolicking

2007-06-15T06:52:00.000+08:00

My absolute favorite statue I saw in Indonesia, as seen by Emily and Larry Kunkel at a hotel in Nusa Dua, Bali, on Christmas Day. A man standing next to it said, "It is beautiful, yes?" And of course they agreed.

Those Crazy Dragons

2007-06-05T11:14:00.000+08:00

And to think, I never made it to Komodo...

The Final Saga Part I

2007-06-03T01:53:00.000+08:00

**I wrote the following in March, right after I had been forced to leave Malang. I wasn't allowed to post it while I was still in the country because of reasons that will come up later**

At the beginning of March things reached a boiling point at my school over the whole Pak Teddy issue--among other things. The night before everything went down I decided to report Teddy to my organization and the principal for his repeated sexual harassment. My showdown with him was actually precipitated by another, more frightening event.

On that Tuesday Teddy pulled me out of class for practically no reason at all, as he is often wont to do. This time he wanted the key to the front gate of my house. The owner wanted to see the garden so that he could put the house on the market after I left. I don't know what real estate information he was getting from the garden, but it seemed like a typically strange Indonesian request so I wasn't too fazed. I gave Teddy the key with the express instructions that no one go in my house without my permission. How could they? Teddy wondered aloud. You have the only set of keys.

That's a textbook case of foreshadowing right there.

Teddy gave me the key back later on and reassured me that everything had gone fine. The owner saw the garden, no one went inside, happy happy happy. I finished teaching, worked with the debate team, went out to dinner with Layne, and then went to bed.

I woke up the next day at 6:30 am, a relatively late hour, and stumbled into the kitchen to get some coffee and toast. The following might sound like I'm neurotic, but I've been living alone in my Indonesian house for seven months now. I know how I leave things in my kitchen. First I noticed that the door to the toaster oven was open and the little tray was inside. I always shut the door and never use the little tray. Then I looked at my loaf of bread and noticed the heels were missing. One of the principals I live by is that I never ever eat the heels of the bread, so unless I was cramming carbs while I slept, someone else had been eating in my kitchen. Lastly I ran over to my computer and saw that my iTunes and photo programs were open, when I KNOW I closed them on Tuesday morning before I went to school.

I've had the pleasure of experiencing the cliche "her stomach dropped" before in my life, but this time I could literally feel myself starting to get sick. Someone had been in the house, which meant someone beside me had keys. I hadn't searched the house before I went to sleep, so for all I knew someone had been in the backyard or the back bedroom which I always keep closed. I forced myself to search the whole house, shrieking preemptively every time I went around a corner or opened a door. Luckily, there was no one in the house with me.

At this point I became mildly hysterical and placed a phone call to my poor mother in the US, who was in no position to do anything. I called my organization, but it was still before 7 am and they weren't open yet. I angrily punched in an SMS to Teddy.

Me: "did someone go in my house yesterday???"
Teddy: "yes."

No explanation. Just yes. I called Suharyadi and informed him I wasn't coming to school until I knew who had another set of my keys. Remember, I only gave Teddy the gate key--he didn't have the actual house key. At least not one I gave to him. I called Suharyadi and told him I was calling my organization.

Me: I'm calling A---.
Suharyadi: No! Don't do that!
(Teddy's audible voice in the background: "Tell her no one went in")
Suharyadi: Pak Teddy says no one went into your house. Please come to school.
Me: He already told me someone did.
Suharyadi: (whispers with Teddy)
Me: (losing temper) IF TEDDY WANTS TO SAY SOMETHING HE CAN GET ON THE PHONE HIMSELF.
Suharyadi: Oh, Mr. Teddy is not here yet.
I hang up.

I wrote an e-mail to A--- detailing what I knew so far and also a general rant about Teddy. Suharyadi, after several phone calls, came over to my house to deal with my female insubordination. By this point Teddy had decided to blame the intrusion on Andi and Imron, two guys my age who work for the school. They used to come clean my house in the beginning of the year, but they starting going through my computer and other personal belongings so I told them to stop. Suharyadi claimed it went down like this:

Andi and Imron went with the owner to see my house, but they had no keys. Luckily, my neighbors have had keys this whole time (lucky for them, at least) and gave them the keys. They showed the owner the garden, he left, and then Andi and Imron decided to go into my house, make sandwiches, watch TV, and use my computer for a few hours. No big deal right?

This was said in a calming voice with a smile.

I informed him that yes, it was a big deal, and I didn't believe it. I went to my neighbor's house and asked her if she had given the keys to Andi and Imron. She said she didn't even have keys to my house. I burst into tears. Then her maid declared that she had a set of keys (??) to my house and SHE had given them to Andi and Imron. My neighbor had no idea her maid had my keys. This conversation was in Indonesian and seemed incredibly suspect to me.

Suharyadi seemed relieved and took this story as validation of Andi and Imron's guilt.
Me: "Um, I gave Teddy the key yesterday. Why couldn't they have used that?"
Suharyadi: "Uhhh...you did?"

Once again, Teddy had lied. Something shady was going on, and I wanted to know how many copies of my keys existed. No one seemed to know. At this junction I asked Suharyadi to leave so I could call A---.

Suharyadi: "NO!!! The principal is very sad. He wants you to come to school now." The phone had been ringing every few minutes since he arrived. They were dead set on me not calling my supervisor. I said I was anyway. Suharyadi repeated his request. I said no. This went on for about ten minutes. He is eerily persuasive. Finally I said yes and went to get changed. I told him to wait, and NOT LET ANYONE IN THE HOUSE, especially anyone from the school.

I come out of my bedroom and there are Andi and Imron sitting in my living room. He called them and told them to come over and explain. I just said I was sad and hurt and then they left. At this point I refused to go to the school again, but Suharyadi just stared at me until I acquiesced.

So we had a meeting with the principal. They screamed at Andi and Imron and claimed the problem had been solved. I wanted to know why Teddy hadn't given them the key in the first place. The principal (who I THOUGHT was a very nice man) just said it wasn't an issue. So I moved on to bigger fish.

I told him that I wanted to report Teddy's behavior toward me for the past few months. At this point Suharyadi got incredibly nervous and tried to talk me out of saying anything. He finally agreed to translate. I told the principal about the comments, the touching, the fact that students AND teachers had approached me to tell me that Teddy was making me look bad, and the attempted massages and invitations to sleep at his house. The principal had three things to say:

1) Teddy sees Americans acting a certain way in movies, so can he really be blamed for thinking that way about me?
My response: sometime I see in movies that Americans kill Muslims, could I kill Teddy?
Point conceded.

2) Teddy thinks of me as his child, so he is only touching me as a father would touch his child.
My response: my father would NEVER touch me like Teddy does, nor try to talk to me about sex incessantly. Also, I am a twenty-two year old female co-worker, not his child.
Point conceded.

3) Teddy probably only touches me as a friend, like patting me on the shoulder before class.
My response: a short and extremely uncomfortable demo of the touching.
Point conceded immediately.

Final argument--Teddy is an Islamic man and a good Islamic man would not do these things. I couldn't argue with that because at that point I was too tired and upset to get into a religious and philosophical discussion in Bahasa Indonesia. I just smiled and put my head in my heads. The principal, Suharyadi, another vice-principal, and the female teacher in the meeting immediately apologized and said they would talk to Teddy as well. He would also apologize.

Good, right??

On Monday, my supervisor, who had been out of town all weekend, called me to confirm my e-mail about Teddy. She was shocked and went over the points with me--I said they were all true, but we had worked them out. She called the principal solely to check that Teddy had apologized (he hadn't). She called me back right afterwards and said the principal had said I was lying and had made the whole thing up. I was shocked. It would have been one thing if the principal had never believed me--but he had apologized and said he supported me. So this was all news to me. She talked to Teddy too and he also denied everything and called me a liar, started screaming over the phone (as he usually does when someone opposes him) and she told me to leave the school immediately because he was pissed and looking for me.

(Sidenote--Teddy is not that big a guy, but when he screams he's really frightening. He also is pretty good at intimidation--see, "No Matter What the Language, Money spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E)

So I walked out. She called back a few minutes later and said the US Embassy had decided to pull me out of my school and possibly Malang as well. I guess the rationale behind this (which was explained to me later by the US Embassy) was that Teddy could easily turn the charges back on me. I guess a few years ago a similar situation occurred and the man told police the woman had used black magic on him to seduce him--and the woman was put in prison. So if Teddy wanted, he could claim I used my bule black magic on him and he had tried to resist me. At the end of the night I got the word that I had to move out of Malang for good by the end of the week.

The next morning I woke up when my supervisor called. Apparently my school had sent several e-mails over the course of the night and were calling her office repeatedly to stress that I was lying. They were also calling me from all different numbers, trying to get information they could use against me. The Embassy decided I had to move out of Malang that day. So in four hours, I packed my whole house, decided what to leave behind, bought a plane ticket to Jakarta, and said good-bye to Malang. My neighbors, who were involved in the initial break-in drama, knew everything that was going on. One of the hardest things was leaving them. Since I've gotten here, the Putus have been my family. Made, the fourteen-year-old girl, is like my sister. Eka, the fifteen-year-old, is one of my students and adorable. I went to say goodbye and just lost it when their mother started crying as well. These people aren't stupid--they know we'll probably never seen each other again.

Three of my favorite students somehow got wind of what was going on and showed up at my house (I also don't know where they got my address). Have you ever had three young girls stand in front of you crying and pleading with you not to leave them? I tried to be as vague as possible about what happened (more on that later) but just that I needed to go to Jakarta to work out a "problem." Then they decided to clean my whole house for me. Top to bottom, sweeping, mopping, everything. They cleaned for two hours while I packed. They also skipped school to come over, which I wouldn't usually condone but since I didn't work at SMA 3 anymore I couldn't say anything. Wenti, Indah, and Ratih hugged me, made me pinky swear I'd come back say good-bye to them before I left Indonesia, and left me in a cab going to the airport, leaving my little house behind for good...

A Terrible Anniversary

2007-05-29T22:42:00.000+08:00

I've written about this before, but for the last year there has been hot mud flowing from the ground in Sidoarjo, East Java. Both the government and Lapindo, the company that was drilling at the mud site, refuse to take responsibility for the victims or the material damage they've suffered. Thousands of refugees have lost everything they own and nothing is being done to aid them. Here is an article from today's Jakarta Post about the refugees.

Oh, It's Coming...

2007-05-15T11:58:00.000+08:00

So numerous people have told me I should at least update a little and say I made it out of Southeast Asia alive and am now back frolicking in America. Thailand was great and it was fun to be a tourist who didn't know the language and just wanted to get a tan. In a week or two, after my grant would have been over, I'm going to update with the whole sordid Indonesian tale starting back in early March.

I don't know if anyone still reads my blog, but check back soon!

Update

2007-04-12T19:06:00.000+08:00

So incredibly long story short, due to the problems at my school with the vice-principal sexually harassing me (and the chain of events it set off), I have left Indonesia permanently and am now in Thailand unitl April 24th.

More to follow!

Pick Me Up

2007-03-18T15:27:00.000+08:00

Times are kind of low here right now...so I'm going to post some pictures of a few of my favorite memories of Indonesia so far.

This little girl lived at a halfway house for abandoned children in Surabaya that I visited on Thanksgiving. The kids were adorable.

For some reason they loved to throw these up. Who knows where they learned it.

Riding ponies had always been a passion of mine...outside a temple at Gunung Bromo.

With my (ex) students on Valentine's Day, aka a city-wide drug rally.

One of my first and favorite classes--10-7. These kids actually made me feel like a real teacher.

Leading a workshop at SMA 1 Bangil...the principal posed me this way. The students told me I looked like a Barbie Doll, and compared to them, I did.

On Gili Trawangan off the coast of Lombok. The most beautiful place I've ever been and my favorite spot in Indonesia so far.

One of my other favorite sites: the Buddhist temple of Borobudor outside of Yogyakarta.

With one of the sweetest boys I've ever met outside of the halfway house in Surabaya.

So when I get down about my current situation, it helps to think back at the times I laughed with my students, looked out and saw forty faces hanging on to my every word, went scuba diving with sharks and barracudas, spent my Thanksgiving with kids who really needed a reason to give thanks, and all the places I've been and people I've met. And then nothing really seems too much to get over.

Bromo

2007-03-18T15:05:00.000+08:00

A few weeks ago, Ann, John, Layne, Ronie, and me went to Mount Bromo in East Java. Here's the first view of the mountain.

Warning: looking directly down into the sulfur cloud WILL CAUSE vertigo.

Chucking my offerings into the mountain.

Whole gang at the top.

View of the landscape...what a strange place it was.

Mission Impossible

2007-03-17T19:21:00.000+08:00

Sorry about the lack of posting lately...many, many things have been happening, but apparently my right to free speech has been suspended. It's been suggested that if I continue to tell the truth about what happened to me, my grant will be terminated.

Viva la repression!

Say It With Song

2007-03-04T19:02:00.000+08:00

So in regards to my troubles with my vice-principal sexually harassing me, my friend Birgit (who spent two years in Indonesia, so she knows what's up) sent me this song that she's been translating. It made me laugh pretty hard--first is the English translation followed by the original Indonesian. The highlighted parts are phrases that she's still checking on. I am represented by the disgraced mango.

Lustful Bats

A pretty face for whom?
A sexy body for whom?

Eyes like the morning star
Thin lips, high nose
Teeth as white as a pearl
Chin like hanging jelly

Chorus:

Pretty face, sexy body
Like a ripe mango
Many bats desire it
Want to taste its sweetness
After eating a little bit
The mango is left behind, disgraced

Each day I take care of my pretty face
For my husband who is faithful and pious

There's no way I'll surrender
To a faithless bat

Chorus:

The mango bits left from the bat's mouth

Have no value and are degraded

Wajah ayu untuk siapa
Tubuh sexy untuk siapa (2x)

Mata bagai bintang kejora
Bibir tipis hidung mancung
Gigi seputih mutiara
Dagu bagai lebah bergantung

Chorus:

Wajah ayu tubuh sexy
Bagai buah mangga ranum
Banyak Kampret mengintainya
Ingin mengenyam manisnya
Setelah makan sedikit
Mangga ditinggal ternoda

Tiap hari kurawat wajah nan ayu
Untuk suami yang beriman bertaqwa (2x)

Tidak akan kuserahkan
Pada kampret yang durhaka

Chorus:

Mangga sisa mulut kampret

Tak berharga dan terhina

These Are A Few Of My Most Hated Things

2007-02-25T23:37:00.000+08:00

Two, to be exact. Daily life as a bulé in Indonesia has its annoyances (see, “An Indonesian Day,” below), but I’ve been able to get used to/basically ignore a lot of them—like the tendency for people to be an hour late for meetings, the staring, the comments about my weight, skin tone, and outfits—but these two are quickly growing to be unbearable.

1. Ants

Part of the reason they make me so upset is because there’s a certain mystery to them. I can’t find their main hole, I can’t eradicate them, and I sure as hell can’t spot them coming. I’ll be drinking a Pocari Sweat, put the can down for ten minutes, and when I look at it again it’s swarming with ants and there will be a trail of thousands of them stretching across the floor. I follow the trail back, but there isn’t really a point of origin. They don’t seem to be coming from inside the wall or under the door; occasionally I catch them coming in through the windows, but more often than not I can’t find anything.

If they were just on my food it would be one thing—but they seem to want to eat me as well. One thing I’ve gotten quite skilled at is plucking ants off myself, crushing them between my fingers, and flicking their carcasses onto the floor. I take a certain sadistic pleasure in this activity, almost as much as when I go ant stompin’. Ant stompin’ is a fun little game I’ve created where I put on my sneakers, throw on some beats, and dance around the house until I’ve crushed all the ants under my feet. A fellow ETA recently wrote on her blog about the joy it gives her to spray Raid Floral Fresh when she’s ambushed by swarms of insects. I experience that same joy every time I go ant stompin’.

The worst is when they crawl on me when I’m sleeping. Have you ever woken up covered in two hundred tiny black ants? Because I have and I wouldn’t recommend it.

Last Sunday I devoted the entire day to cleaning my house top to bottom. Mopping, bleaching, sweeping, dusting—I’ve never cleaned so much in my life. I went to bed satisfied that the ants would not find a crumb of sustenance.

Even though I’m not going to a cubicle, when I get up at 5:30 am and it’s already 85 degrees, I usually have a little case of the Mondays. My one small joy is Honey Stars, a delicious Indonesian cereal that is way sugary. My box of Honey Stars is one of my most treasured possessions, so I quarantine it hoping the ants go for the other food in the kitchen. This Monday I gleefully removed the box, with its cheerful Honey Bear, from its seat of honor on top of the TV and poured myself a big bowl. I sat down with my coffee and lifted my spoon—only to realize that there were hundreds of ants teeming in my precious bowl of deliciousness. There were so many I couldn’t even consider picking them out and eating the cereal anyway. I had a low food moment in October when I paid $7 for Philadelphia cream cheese only to unwrap the silvery foil to reveal maggots and mold—but this took the cake. Seeing my Honey Stars defiled reduced me to tears and made me 30 minutes late for school. I think I need to do some extra ant stompin’ this week to release some major endorphins.

2. The second thing is even more trying than the ants because unlike insects, I can’t kill Pak Teddy when he upsets me. Pak Teddy (as some of you might know) is the vice-principal of SMA 3. The thing that makes me most upset about him is that he’s a stereotype of a Muslim man. He continually makes comments about me becoming his second wife, since his first wife “is very fat now and no longer good.” I’ve met her, and she’s a beautiful woman who has gained weight because she’s given Teddy five children in seven years. Teddy repeatedly asks me to sleep at his house, even though I’ve refused and told him it makes me uncomfortable. He insists that he is incredibly holy because he fasts on Mondays and Thursdays and had made the haj to Mecca—yet over the course of the last seven months he’s lied to me, threatened me, made inappropriate comments on a daily basis, and called me an infidel. If I only met him and then left Indonesia, all stereotypes a lot of Americans have about Muslim men would remain intact.

Here’s a classic day with Teddy. I was sitting in the English office reading a dictionary since it was the only thing I could understand. A man came into the office and wanted to know my name. Like he does with all male visitors, Teddy told him I was single and looking for an Indonesian husband. He laughed uproariously and left the room. OK, good one Teddy, except then I had to spend an hour sitting next to this man, having a broken English/Indonesian conversation, while he hit on me and kept touching my arm and leg. I try to be polite most of the time, but when he started asking me about sex I got up and left. Like I’ve written before, not only would these things be wrong in the US, but an Indonesian man would NEVER talk to an Indonesian woman like that. So the fact that I’m working and having to deal with this is, at least partially, Teddy’s fault for bringing it up in the first place.

After I switched seats the man got the message and left. Teddy then came bounding back into the room and over to me.

Teddy: Can you tell me in English about sexual intercourse?
Me: What?!
Teddy: I do not know what it is. Please describe to me.

Now, Teddy is a BIOLOGY teacher, so he damn well knows what sexual intercourse is. I put my head phones and gave him a heinous look, which he ignored. All the other men in the office were laughing, but the one woman, God bless her, was horrified. She went up to Pak Teddy and talked in rapid-fire Javanese for a while. That’s how I knew he was way over the line—the women at my school never criticize Teddy. When she was done he came over to me, still with that stupid smile.

Teddy: I am so sorry I asked about the sex.
Me: No problem.
Teddy: The sex is funny, yeah?
Me: No.

He saw I wasn’t going to play along and went back to his desk. Next thing I know he’s asking me how to pronounce the phrase “female reproductive organs” and wants me to look at diagrams of both sexes. I said no, THEN he drew a picture of a female chest, and under the pretense of “learning vocabulary” asked me what the various English words for the parts of the female breast were. I’m sure he was legitimately teaching the reproductive organs, but since he teaches the class in Indonesian there wasn’t really a reason for me to have to sit and write the word “nipple” on a piece of paper because he has terrible listening comprehension and couldn’t understand when I just said it.

Teddy also claims that because he is a biology teacher, he’s an excellent masseuse. I sprained my ankle last week and he continually grabs my foot with his hands and tries to massage it, on his hands and knees, in front of me. He always wants to give me reflexology on my hands for my “stress.” Again, not anything he offers to ANY women at the school, just me.

After the motorcycle incident (too long to recount, I wrote about it my entry, “No Matter What The Language, Money Spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E) I told Suharyadi I didn’t want to talk to Teddy anymore. After a series of text messages (see, “There Is A Land Called Passive Aggressiva) I relented and said I would deal with him on a professional level. That worked for about a month and now we’ve backslid to the same old shit Teddy used to pull.

This Saturday, I was doing a favor for Teddy by going to visit SMA 1 Bangil, a school an hour and a half outside of Malang. It wasn’t so much for him as the other school—they were trying to become an international school and wanted to motivate their kids to speak English. So I agreed to go on the condition that we not leave early in the morning and that I would not go alone with Teddy.

The day before, Teddy called me five times and sent me three messages saying that we’re leaving at 8 am (a relatively late hour) and I CANNOT be late. Fine, I can wake myself up, I’ve been doing it since I was 10. I set my alarm for 7:30.

7 am: Teddy calls.

Teddy: Are you awake?
Me: No, you said 8.
Teddy: Get up and eat breakfast right now. No late!
Me: FINE.

So I get up and eat breakfast, get dressed, and sit on my couch waiting for Teddy.

8:30: I SMS him.

Me: where are u? u said 8. i am ready now.
Teddy: have meeting. there in 10 min.

After I watch an entire Amazing Race episode, I text him again. No response.

10:00: I send Suharyadi an angry message.

10:15: Teddy calls.

Teddy: Hello! You must be ready! No late!

**Note** Jam karet, or rubber time, is an accepted part of Indonesian culture. But I’ve asked around and making someone wait more than an hour or two is pretty rude, even by their standards. And I wouldn’t really have been mad at all if he hadn’t called and woken me up so urgently. So I felt justified yelling at Teddy a little.

Me: I AM ready, I was ready at 8 when you said to be.
Teddy: Oh, are you mad?
(the answer to this question, in Javanese culture, is ALWAYS no.)
Me: Yes!
Teddy: Oh, I sorry. I come now.

10:30: He gets to the house. I stomp outside and get in the car. There is no one else.

Me: Um, are we getting the other teachers?
Teddy: No, all sick. Just us!

Greeeeat. Teddy then proceeded to put on the Avril Lavigne cassette and “sing” along to it. And by sing I mean he keened like a hurt puppy in a way that wasn’t relevant to the tune or the words of the song. In between whines he screamed into his cell phone, sent text messages while going 80 miles an hour, and shifted gears in such a way that his hand was always on my arm. No matter how many times I shifted away from him and looked out the window, the arm always made its way back.

Bangil was great—I was sweaty and grumpy as all hell when I got there, but the kids spoke fantastic English and had lots of questions. We only stayed an hour then hopped back in the car since I had “a conference at Layne’s school” I had to go to at 3 (I always have to have an fake event after something with Pak Teddy, otherwise he invariably drives me to his house and tries to make me sleep there). Even though it was monsooning all the way home and the roads were flooding, Teddy continued to text message and look at everything except the road. When I got home I promptly checked myself into a hotel and got a massage.

Teddy, you make me crazier than ants in my favorite cereal. And that’s saying a lot.

And Today In Disturbing Safety News:

2007-02-25T15:25:00.000+08:00

I've only flown into the Malang airport one time, and I have to say that I was not impressed. It's a military airport that only recently started taking a few daily flight from Sriwijaya Air and Merpati (whose unofficial slogan is, "It's Merparti and I'll Die if I Want To). When we arrived Layne and I noticed a handwritten poster that showed the pilot what runway we were supposed to land on. We didn't really think about it too much since it was our first time in Malang and we were promptly rushed off to our new schools and houses (or in my case, rushed off to a local mosque so the four men who picked me up could pray).

Johanna, who uses the Malang airport quite a bit, has been covertly gathering information about its operating standards. First she found out that the airport closes each day at 5, so when airport officials tell you a Malang flight is delayed and its already three pm, you're out of luck for the day.

More recently, she uncovered the reason for the early closing hours. It turns out that the Malang airport has no communication system or navigation equipment, so all flights, including 200 passenger commercial flights, are landing based purely on the pilot's visuals. In fact, Layne's neighbor's flight was rerouted to Surabaya one day when it was foggy--we assumed it was because the runways were wet. Actually, the pilot couldn't see the ground and would have been, absolutely literally, flying blind.

So that must be the reason for the poster. The pilot starts descending, and then checks out the poster of the day to see what runway is clear for him to land on.

I don't even have a little snarky wrap-up comment for this. I'm just going to teach you an Indonesian word I use quite a bit, usually in a questioning tone while pointing at a plane, bus, or other mode of transport.

berbahaya: dangerous

A Delightful New Twist on the Name Game

2007-02-20T14:17:00.000+08:00

I’ve been at SMA 3 for six months now, and my name still hasn’t been standardized. I get called Cait, Caitie, Miss Caitlin, Miss, and C on an everyday basis, and there’s still an annoying large percentage of the school staff who insist on calling me Cath.

I also get introduced a lot. I didn’t realize this until a few months ago, but SMA 3 is apparently one of the best schools in Java (although I adore my students, the thought that their English is the cream of the crop in Indonesian makes me shudder). At least once a week Pak Teddy and Pak Pri, the vice-principal, conduct tours of the school for visiting teachers from all around the archipelago. Last week there were 30 teachers from Banda Aceh, the province hit hardest by the 2004 tsunami. In December there was a large contingent from Sidoarjo, the area near Surabaya that is slowly but surely being destroyed by hot mud. I always get pulled into the teacher’s room for at least a few minutes to just generally act like an American and so the school can show off their white person status symbol..

When Pak Pri and Pak Teddy introduce me they like to switch it up Sometimes I’m, “the Fulbright scholar,” or “the AMINEF worker.” For the teachers from Banda Aceh I was, “the native speakers who works here for us and is going to move to Indonesia to live in Malang (false).” Usually the words “native speaker” are combined with some version of my name.

But today, in front of 25 teachers from Jakarta, Pak Pri stood up and announced, “This is Caitlin, my best friend in the world!” Then he handed me the microphone.

I started laughing, but I’d be remiss if I didn't say I was a little touched as well. Best friend in the world? I had no idea you felt that way about me, Pak Pri. Then Pak Teddy joined in with, “Yes, she is also my best friend too.” The teachers from Jakarta were just nodding happily and waiting for my 7 second spiel in Indonesian. So maybe this is my new standard introduction: Miss Caitlin, best friend to older Indonesian men everywhere.

At least it's better than Cath. I'm not a bag of urine, people!

An Indonesian Day

2007-02-18T20:35:00.000+08:00

I had one today. Complete with all the frustrations and inconveinences. I woke up around 5 am when my counterpart at my school, Suharyadi, sent me an SMS. This is what it said (remember, this is a co-worker):

Hi, how r u? I need your help. I need to borrow one millions rupiah. I will give it to you in April. I need today.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. One million rupiah is more than $100 and double his monthly salary. There was no way.

7 am: Johanna sends me an SMS saying she's throwing up and can't come to my school on Monday for a workshop. I send out messages to the people at my school and go back to sleep.

10 am: a spider bites my leg so I get up to put ice on the bite. I SMS Suharyadi and ask what he wants the money for. Response:

"My baby is very sick. I need to buy him extra milk."

I felt guilty about that. What if his baby was dying? But still, milk costs about 50 cents for a gallon. $100 was a little excessive. I asked him if he has taken the baby to the hospital, and he said no, he wasn't that sick. Well, OK then. I said no, I couldn't loan out money to co-workers. His response?

"OK, I hope Alpha lives."

THAT just made me angry. I sent him a terse message explaining I wasn't responsible for his baby's health, and if the baby needed to go to the hospital that was one thing--but I wasn't giving him $100 for milk. He didn't respond. This irritated me because the week before, Suharyadi had begged me to tell him how much I made per week. He said he wanted to understand the conversion rates between American money and Indonesian. Apparently he forgot to factor in that I've lived in Indonesia for seven months now and I know how much things cost here.

After that, I got dressed and realized my house was in sorry, sorry shape. I hobbled around (I fell hiking the other day and may have sprained my ankle, x-rays tomorrow) and surveyed. A power surge three nights ago blew out all my light bulbs except for two, so I have to read with a flashlight. The ceilings are too high to replace them myself, so I'd have to locate a ladder. The floors were dirty and needed to be swept and mopped. The front garden was extremely overgrown since I'd been gone the whole month of January. The night before the taxi driver told me he saw a snake in there. Something needed to be done, and not by me.

So I called this guy that my friend knows (real safe, right?). He helped me clean up perhaps the worst kitchen disaster I'd ever seen in January. When I went to Bali with my family in December, in our rush to leave Malang my fridge came unplugged. Unfortunately, there was a huge watermelon inside. When I came home three weeks later, the watermelon had been rotting and cooking in the sun. It smelled like a combination of stomach acid, extremely dirty socks, and burning trash. I had to move into Layne's house for a week while it aired out. So this guy (I don't know his name) cleaned the watermelon up for me for an exorbitant price of Rp. 50,000.

So he came over at 1. Now, I never had a maid or anything in the US, but I believe the point of paying someone to do something is that you, yourself, do not have to do it. Apparently he didn't prescribe to that school of hired help. He asked where the brooms were, and then handed me one and told me to sweep while he cleaned the garden. So I hopped around on one foot sweeping the bug corpses, volcanic ash, and general dirt out of the house. When he finished with the garden (no snakes to be found! hopefully they aren't already in the house) we went shopping for light bulbs.

This was another large part of a typical Indonesian day. Two women in a tiny shop sold me six very expensive light bulbs, reassuring me they worked. We get home and...surprise! Three of them were broken. They were also all in 100 watt boxes when it turned out they were only 40 watts. Now, I ask you, why would they do this? I clearly wanted to buy light bulbs, I wanted to buy them there...why not just sell me functional, appropriate wattage lightbulbs? But three was what I had, so I held the ladder while nameless helper replaced the bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen lights. That still left the porch, front bedroom, and back in darkness, but it was better than nothing.

Then nameless helper filled up a bucket and gave me a mop so I could mop my own floors while he toted the grass from the driveway across the street and lit it on fire. He came in and finished the job, and I moved into washing my own clothes in my mandi. It took me about two hours, and when I finished he had eaten two candy bars and a piece of pizza out of my fridge.

Five hours after we started, I escorted him out and paid him (when I picked up my purse to get the money, I realized it was, for some inexplicable reason, completely full of ants). Nameless helper seemed to want to hang out in my house, but he smelled and I wasn't amused. At least I got some exercise--mopping on one foot is pretty taxing!

I returned the ladder and machete (to cut the grass) to my neighbor's house. Their dog had just had puppies, and I went to see them...only I got too close and the mother, Stephanie, attacked me. Luckily she didn't break the skin and everyone laughed nervously and motioned for me to leave.

Now it's 8 pm and I'm sitting, sweating, and trying to think of a lesson plan for tomorrow. I have to appreciate the symmetry of this day--I was just biten by another spider and SMSed again by Suharyadi. He wanted to know if I was sick. I said I was fine, how was Alpha? I waited anxiously for the response, scared he was going to say the baby had died. Instead, I get this:

"Oh, he is so fine, thanks for asking!"

Oh, no problem. All in a day's work.

TIDAK NARKOBA

2007-02-18T19:50:00.000+08:00

The word narkoba isn’t listed in my dictionary, but its cousins, narkotica and narkoses, mean narcotics. From what I gathered on Valentine’s Day, narkoba is a general term for all drugs, alcohol, and sexual activity that will ruin your life should you choose to engage in them. According to my students, not only can narkoba kill you, it can give you AIDS, make your head explode, and cause you to be so immoral that you will go to hell.

Ah, Valentine’s Day. I’d spent the previous week asking all my students to be my Valentines and telling them dramatically exaggerated stories about my Valentine’s Days, starting in middle school and working my way up. Inspired by a fellow Fulbrighter's blog, I invented a fake boyfriend named Biff who was both the love of my life and the bane of my existence for three years. The year 10s were especially appalled by the Valentine’s Day when Biff forgot to ask me on a date, made me pay for dinner, and then cheated on me. I must be a fantastic storyteller, because after each telling a few girls in the class would come up and hold my hands, like I was going to start crying.

**Inappropriateness alert**

After asking one of my classes to be my Valentines, one of the fifteen-year-old boys who sits in the back nodded and winked suggestively at me. I would like to say I reprimanded him, but I laughed instead. No wonder the men here grow up to be such terrrible sexual harassers! They start practicing young.

***

So this was the buildup for Valentine’s Day. I got up at 6 am, washed and dried my hair before school for the first time in several months, and got dressed in a pink and green outfit. I bought candy for my students and hopped on an angkot. On the way there, I noticed about 300 people wandering the streets by my school with huge signs. It was odd, but I’ve been conditioned to ignore things like that now.

I went into the school for third period and realized that no one was in class. Kids were racing motorbikes in the street, playing music, and there appeared to be a soccer tournament going on in the back. I walked into the front office.

Me: um, is there any class today?

School Employee: umm, maybe. There is maybe not.

Me: Today. Class? Yes or no?

School Employee: Nervously laughs.

Then some kind of bell went off. I went to the back of the school to see all the students lined up in the courtyard in military formations, all carrying posters and wearing t-shirts instead of their uniforms that said “Prestasi, Yes…Narkoba, No” which translates to. “Achievement, Yes…Drugs/Sex/Immoral Actions, No.” Everyone shrieked with joy when they saw me, and someone handed me a bull horn. The students looked at me expectantly. What the hell was going on?

Luckily, one of the other teachers took pity on me. “Say Prestasi in speaker, then Narkoba.” Alright.

“Prestasi.”

“YESSSSSSSS”

“Narkoba?”

“NOOOOOOO”

I led this cheer for about five minutes, then the students wanted me to take pictures with their various signs. My favorite one said, “Join With Drugs, Feel Happy In Hell,” which was poignant, I thought. There were also illustrations of bloody skulls, used syringes, and other narkoba paraphernalia. A few of my students remembered what day it was in my alternate universe and gave me some candy. One boy wished me a “very sexy day,” and although I don’t usually let them say sexy he seemed to be using it very innocently, so I just said thank you.

Someone else took over the bull horn and screamed “AYOOOOO,” which means, "let’s go." Suddenly all the students surged forward, shaking their signs and screaming “TIDAK NARKOBA.” Out of nowhere, the teachers all put on blue baseball hats with gold seals. This clearly was something that had been in the works for a while.

Why had no one told me?

We paraded to the center of town, Tugu Circle, where I had seen all the people that morning. Things started to fall into place. All of the elementary, junior high, and high schools from our district were gathering this morning to scream "TIDAK NARKOBA" together. There were about 3,000 people milling around, seemingly without any kind of organization or plan. There were no activities planned (except maybe a concert? No one seemed to know) and you could leave whenever you wanted. I walked around, heard a bunch of "Hello Misters" from the younger kids, and then bought my teachers some flowers. Typically, they were horrified that I had sent $4 on flowers for them. Finally I spewed some line about how money doesn't matter when it comes to those important in your life, and they accepted the flowers. They also made me pose with two Indonesian policemen and give them flowers while they took pictures. And I wonder why Indonesian men think Americans are prostitutes?

Finally I felt like I was suffering from heat stroke so I went back to the school. After they kept me there for another two hours insisting that classes were going to start again, I spotted the students leaving. I went home and fell asleep until my date with Johanna and Layne at Tugu that night. I wore a low-cut and inappropriate dress and Johanna and I spent the night drinking wine and fielding questions about why we were alone. At that point, I was too tired from TIDAK NARKOBA to expound on my Biff story. Someone took our picture for the newspaper--I can only imagine what the caption was.

SELAMAT VALENTINE'S!

Finish This Sentence:

2007-02-14T17:50:00.000+08:00

On Valentine's Day, SMA 3:

a) wore pink
b) exchanged candy
c) gave Miss Caitlin the day off
d) canceled classes and went a citywide anti-drug rally

The answer, of course, is d.

More to follow.

Four Kunkels and a Communist

2007-02-09T15:10:00.000+08:00

Recently, a copy of this picture showed up in the SMA 3 newsletter with a headline reading, "KELUARGA KUNKEL BAGUSSSSS!!!"
Translation: The Kunkel family is good. I agree.

Me, Looking Confused on Any Given Day

2007-02-09T14:54:00.000+08:00

This particular moment of confusion took place while Emily and I were trapped in an elevator in Bali, but this face makes an appearance pretty much everyday.

I Told You Dogs Were Better Than Cats

2007-02-09T14:49:00.000+08:00

From an e-mail sent out by the US Embassy:

It is critically important to avoid contact with sick or dead poultry. This is particularly important for children. Most human cases of H5N1 have occurred through direct contact with sick or dead poultry.

Additionally, there have been confirmed reports that wild and stray cats have been shown to carry H5N1. While there have been no documented cases of feline-to-human transmission of H5N1, it is important to avoid contact with wild and stray cats, and to ensure that domesticated cats do not eat or interact with sick or dying poultry, or enter areas where there is an outbreak of H5N1 in birds and poultry. Domesticated cats which reside mainly inside a residence should not be at risk for catching H5N1.

Question: If you contract bird flu from a cat, is that still bird flu or does it change into cat flu?

A "Rizky" Situation

2007-02-01T22:13:00.000+08:00

So my contact at SMA 3, Suharyadi, just had a baby boy. That in and of itself would be good news, right? Except he never told me his wife was pregnant. In fact, he's never mentioned his wife. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I distinctly remember him telling me when I first arrived in Malang that he wasn't married yet. Turns out he's been married for over a year and his wife was three months pregnant at the time he denied her existence.

I wouldn't find this as strange in the US, but the people I work with want to know everything about my views on family and marriage. They know my views on religion in marriage, what kind of children I'd like to have, whether I think boys might be better than girls (Pak Teddy initiated this discussion, of course), things I hadn't even thought about until they pressed me on them.

So while I'm thinking everyone is just very open and curious, he's lying about the fact that he's married? And when I asked him about the child, he seemed embarassed I'd found out. In December he covered the fact that his wife was giving birth by telling me he was visiting his brother in Probolinggo and that's why he missed class. Pak Teddy let it slip that he was at the hospital with his wife.

PLUS he named the kid Alpha Rizky. Maybe he's raising him to be a spy and wanted him to have a covert birth as well?

Workin' It

2007-01-31T19:03:00.000+08:00

I realized today that I haven’t written anything on this blog about one of the loves of my life in Malang—my gym. I searched for a gym the first four months in Malang and finally found one in early December. It’s called Istana Dieng.

I first knew this was my gym when I walked in the front entrance and saw that suspended from the ceiling were giant portraits of people Indonesians consider to be American paragons of fitness and manliness: John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, and Brad Pitt circa 1985. From the entrance you can also see the neon light up stairs, the many koi ponds, and the discoteque/bowling alley. There’s a steak restaurant downstairs, a Japanese reaturant upstairs, and an ice-cream stand by the gym entrance. In the back is a water park: three huge pools with slides and suspended walkways that are wrapped around them. I almost started hyperventilating; it was that beautiful a building. And I hadn’t even been inside the main gym yet.

Note: the following may seem like an exaggeration, but it’s absolutely true.

You walk into the main gym and plastered all over the walls are huge posters of extremely jacked men and women. My favorite features a muscular woman squeezing the bicep of a giant man and a thought bubble saying, “Women love men with HUGE muscles!” Next to that is a sign advising that in order to get the largest muscles, you need to pump the big weight. This can be achieved through dedicated and strong lifting partners, says the next sign. What make these signs so funny is that the people in the gym are the smallest, least muscular people I’ve ever laid eyes on. They struggle to do lat pull downs with fifty pounds and gawk at me when I can do eighty. My relative beastliness here is another reason I love Istana Dieng.

When I went in my first day to work out, an abnormally tall and fit Indonesian man named Taufiq introduced himself to me and said he would help me train, because “I obviously had a lot to work to do and I was very big.” I started laughing and allowed him to measure my body fat and weigh me. I’m not going to write the measurements here, but they weren’t too bad considering I hadn’t exercised in about five months. A good stomach virus every month or so helps to keep the weight off, I’ve discovered. Taufiq, however, could barely hide his horror.

“You are very big. You need to lose ten pounds this month and twenty more by the end of March (I actually checked these numbers on the BMI scale and those weight measurements would give me a BMI of 14, which is decidedly NOT healthy). When I argued that I had half a foot on everyone else in the gym and that’s why I was bigger, Taufiq told me that making excuses would prevent me from ever losing weight. Well, that settled it I guess.

There isn’t really an AC at Istana Dieng, so my workouts are limited to about 45 minutes of trotting on a jerky treadmill. Apparently their commitment to muscles extends more to the weight machines than building lean muscles on the treadmill. Occasionally Taufiq tells me I look “maybe not as big today” and that I should run faster.

I can only run for so long before some kind of class will start behind the treadmills. The soundtrack in Istana Dieng is usually pretty standard: the ATL CD by T.I., anything by Tupac, and my personal favorite, 3 6 Mafia. Nothing is edited at all, like most rap in Indonesia. They want to pass a law making tank tops illegal, yet they blast music about bitches and drugs. Beats me.

Every once and a while I’m lucky enough to be at the gym when line dancing class takes place. Indonesian women and the occasional man in workout gear don cowboy hats and prance around to whatever kind of music you line dance to. I thought this was my favorite class. BUT the other day the cheerleading class took over the top spot. One woman, dressed in a tiny skirt and a half top, energetically led four other women in an hour of cheering with pom poms and hand claps. This was all performed to Madonna and Britney Spears.

The great thing about Istana Dieng is that because everyone stares at me so often, I feel absolutely free to gawk back. I get off the treadmill and laugh at the people doing line dances; I see nothing wrong with staring at the people on the machines until they get uncomfortable and get off. Unfortunately, this policy came back to haunt me today.

I ride a mikrolet for half an hour and then take a motorcycle (or ojek) up the hill to the gym each day. So when I got there today and realized I had forgotten my shorts, going home wasn’t really an option. So I went to the front desk and asked if they had anything I could wear. Here are the options they presented me with:

1. A pair of men’s running shorts, like the ones they wear in the Oylmpic marathon—short and sweet. Basically flesh colored underwear with three inches of fabric on each leg.

2. A pair of white, size small children’s capri pants from Old Navy. They were stretch jean material.

3. A pair of shorts which I swear to God wouldn’t have fit me anytime in the last fifteen years. The waist must have been twelve inches.

4. A pair of pink spandex pants.

The girls who work at the gym are my age and find my awkwardness and hugeness extremely entertaining. They made me put on the spandex pants first. They were so tight I couldn’t walk. They assured me I looked beautiful.

Options 2 and 3 were not viable; nothing about my knee was getting into them. So Option 1 seemed to be it. I put on the shorts, covering up exactly 4% of my legs. I let the girls laugh at me for a while, and then just decided to own it. I’m in a gym in Indonesia that idolizes Robert Mitchum, has a bowling alley, and offers line dancing classes. Might as well fit in.

So I walked across the mirror paneled room, smiling and nodding at each exerciser who stopped to stare and point and giggle at me. As I told one especially giggly man, “Oh please…you WISH you had these shorts on.” And he just nodded and giggled some more. It was one of my most satisfying workouts ever.

In Theory, It Was A Good Idea...

2007-01-24T18:30:00.000+08:00

I'm in Bandung, West Java, right now visiting Ann and Elena, two other ETAs. I could have flown here, but getting to Surabaya, taking a plane to Jakarta, and then taking a train to Bandung seemed like a big hassle when I could just sit on a bus for ten hours. Also, a train from Bandung to Jakarta derailed last week and fell into a gorge. So I went to the bus station yesterday, bought a ticket, and settled in for the ride. Let's look at the stats here:

# of unexpected detours to Surabaya: 1
# of hours the detour added to the trip: 5
# of hours we sat in the Surabaya bus station: 2
# of men who tried to take Layne's iPod from me: 2
# of men who tried to sit on my lap and listen to Layne's iPod with me: 1
# of times I told him to get off: I lost count after ten
# of times I screamed at him to get the f**k away from me: 1
# of dads who came to the rescue: 2
# of hours my male seatmate used my chest as a pillow: 15
# of hours after eating at a truck stop that I became violently ill: 5
# of hours left in the trip at that point: 8
# of donuts I ate and then threw up in the bus bathroom: 2
# of hours I slept on the bus: 2
# of stops we made to pick up passengers at their houses: at least twenty
# of times I asked my seatmate to stop poking me and asking me questions: 5
# of times I changed my seat: trick question! the bus was full
# of hours left when Layne's iPod ran out of batteries: 7
# of times I cursed Pahala Kencana bus line: oh, so many
relief at reaching Ann's house: boundless
actual number of hours in the "10 hour" trip: 19.5

Well, at least I'm not afraid to fly anymore. And I can check "get violently ill in the tiny bathroom of an Indonesian bus while bouncing around mountain roads at 3 am" off my list of things to do here. What a relief!

After all my whining though, Bandung is actually really cool--good food, tons of shopping, and cooler than Malang. Ann and I are going to Jakarta for the weekend so I can continue my quest for a new iPod. Should be epic.

Sometimes I Go On Elephant Safari...ALONE

2007-01-09T13:45:00.000+08:00

My father talked a real big game before he came to Indonesia about how he was going to ride an elephant. Rode e-mails about it, scouted the location, just generally played it off as a certainty.

Until...my mother was attacked by an Indonesian monkey (see below, "An Indonesian Tale of Assualt and Revenge"). Suddenly the elephant park was no longer a priority...and whoops! we ran out of time.

Since I decided to stay in Ubud by myself, I really didn't see any reason why I couldn't represent the whole family in spirit at the Taro Elephant Park, about 40 km north. There are signs every 3 m (which regrettably use a quote from the late Steve Irwin on them, but Indonesia will never take them down for the tiny, insignificant reason that the man is dead), and someone named Wayan drove me there.

It cost $10 to just enter the park and see the elephants, and $50 to actually ride one for half an hour. I scoffed at the prices and bought a general admission ticket. There's no way I was paying $50 to sit on an elepant for 30 minutes.

I have to admit, I was a little disapointed at first. Recently an elephant killed a bunch of villagers in India because they'd murdered his mother when he was a baby and he apparently remembered them. There were warning signs all over about not antagonizing the elephants. I rushed in, wanting to see an elephant freaking out a la Dumbo's mother...but they were actually pretty small. A cheerful placard on the wall informed visitors that Sumatran elephants are the smallest and most friendly in the whole world, unlike Indian elephants. You could feed them, pet them, stick your fingers down their trunks (ok, that wasn't expressly stated, but it was implied, I thought).

I played along for a while, but then I saw the elephants strolling along, chairs loosely tied to their backs...and I couldn't resist. I had to ride one. So I threw down another $40 and waited anxiously in line. Was it going to be that big one over on the right? The one with the giant tusks? The little girl elephant who wasn't much bigger than a horse...oh no. I tried to refuse, but they insisted this was my elephant. Her name was Ramona and I sulked on her back for a few minutes before the guide drew me into an elementary Indonesian conversation. I asked if Ramona had any skills that made her better than the other elephants, and it turned out she did. Ramona could play the harmonica!! She plays it the same way I do, which is just blowing air in and out regardless of pitch or notes, but still! We rode off down the path, my chair sliding precariously off the elephant's side as she played a little ditty on her harmonica.

After the ride I bought a picture of myself on the elephant from the giftshop (for my father!) and then sat and people-watched for a while. When I woke up that morning, I had given a fair amount of thought to what I should wear to an elephant safari park. In the end, I decided flip flops were probably OK since Indonesians don't even wear shoes a lot of the time.

I mention this because the other patrons of the park had clearly NOT given any thought to their outfits, unless that thought was "this is my vacation and I'll wear what I want." I'm also going to throw in that everyone besides me was European, and I know this for a fact because I checked at the front desk on my way out. People wearing midriff tops, booty shorts, men with no shirts, no shoes, and extremely abbreviated pants--things that would grab a second look anywhere but the beach. I was chuckling in my head when the best family of all walked by. For their day in the elephant park, they chose to wear...bathing suits. The three women were all wearing tiny bikinis, and the man was wearing a Speedo. Around his waist was a fanny pack, where I can only assume he kept his family's money and dignity. They were also one of those families that fight loudly in public, my absolute favorite kind. I think they were speaking Dutch. Their fighting included a shoving match by the edge of the ramp where you mount the elephants, the dad almost going over the side. I didn't want to laugh out loud, but watching four people in bathing suits ride elephants might have been the best thing I've ever seen. If only my family had been there too!

Indonesian Holiday: An Interview with Emily and Grace Kunkel

2007-01-08T14:51:00.000+08:00

By Guest Columnist Ezra Flam

Ezra: What would you say was the highlight of this trip for you?

Grace: Definitely all the cute anak anak laki lakis.

Emily: I would say the highlight for me was the art. Indonesia isn't well known for their sculpture, but they have some very romantic works of art. For example at one hotel we stayed in there was an exquisite sculpture of a man with a massive apparatus, and at another a statue of two deer frolicking together. I cant think of any American artists who have the ability to capture the eccentricities of life so beautifully.

Ezra: Of course, it wasn't all hotels and resorts, was it? In my background research for this interview I spoke with noted Sociologist and Indonesian expert Aidan Burn about the slew of natural disasters that have recently plagued the country (massive flooding, ship sinkings, plane crashes, food slathered in mayonnaise). Aidan suggested that so few people survive these disasters that it must be remarkable to find people actually living in the islands of Indonesia. Did you experience that?

Emily: Well, we did. We spent one evening on a ship called "The Titanic." I took double the recommended dose of Xanax before I got on the boat.

Grace: And flooding was an issue for us. At one point we were crossing between two Islands, the bridge was flooding, and we had to decide if we wanted to caulk the wagon and float it, try to ford the river or hire an Indonesian to ferry us across.

Ezra: What did you do?

Grace: We tried to ford the river. Of course, in the crossing we lost all our food, 4 sets of clothing, 2 oxen and Monica got bit by a monkey and contracted Avian flu, from which she is still recovering.

Ezra: What about Larry?

Emily: He was hard at work exploring the feasibility of marketing Cryomaxx in Indonesia.

Ezra: Well thanks for taking the time to talk to me. Do you guys have any ideas about Kunkel Christmas ‘07?

Emily: Well obviously that’s proprietary information, but there are definitely a few places on the short list.

Grace: Monica did mention something on the flight back about wanting to see the United Arab Emirates, but I think Larry would rather hunt Alaskan Moose in the Northern Territories, so we’ll have to wait and see.

An Indonesian Tale of Assault and Revenge

2007-01-06T14:21:00.000+08:00

This is a story about monkeys.

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Monica Kunkel. She was very smart and cautious and she always vaccinated her children against diseases, valid or not (Japanese encephalitis, anyone?). She was scared of contracting rabies.

But then one day, Monica and her family went to Indonesia. While there, they visited a beautiful town named Ubud. One of the main tourist attractions in Ubud is the Ubud Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary.

Relaxing outside this self-proclaimed "sanctuary," Monica let down her guard. A little too much. Her daughter Caitlin, who had seen the other monkeys in Indonesia and knew they often attacked for no reason and were hateful, dirty creatures, saw that a monkey was climbing on the branches right above her and Monica's head. Caitlin, acting wisely in terms of her own self-interest but perhaps selfishly when it came to her mother's, immediately ran away from the monkey. Monica, unaware, sat and smiled.

Then the monkey jumped down next to Monica, his eyes on the bottle of Aqua water next to her. Monica turned, saw a large monkey sitting next to her, and smiled. The monkey bared his teeth and snared. Hoping to avoid confrontation, Monica turned and faced front again.

Now her husband, Larry Kunkel, saw his woman being threatened and picked up his briefcase, preparing to nail the monkey in the head. In the meantime, the monkey, mistaking Monica's look for one of thirst and wanting to protect his bottle of water, lunged toward her and bit the side of her polo shirt. Monica remained calm, and in fact seemed not to realize she was being bitten by a wild monkey in Indonesia. Caitlin, knowing she had had her rabies shots and was thus immune to this danger, laughed and took a photo. Emily and Grace yelled. The European tourists and Indonesians lounging around said nothing and looked away.

Perhaps menaced by Larry heaving his briefcase, the monkey let go of Monica's shirt without puncturing her flesh. He grabbed the water bottle and proceeded to drink it a safe distance away, glaring at the Kunkels. Caitlin kept laughing and taking pictures; Emily and Grace kept yelling; Larry became flustered; but Monica stayed very calm. Only when the news was broken that the monkey had in fact been biting her did she seem disturbed. But, she was unharmed (her shirt, however, was covered with monkey teeth marks and dirty saliva) and the Kunkels vowed never to go to the Monkey Forest again.

The End

Except that's not the end. Wanting to seek revenge for my mother, I went to the Monkey Forest on the 2nd, the day after my family went home. Against my better judgement I bought bananas at the front gate, although Layne had warned me not to.

Less than three minutes after I entered the forest, a large monkey attacked the man in front of me, tearing his bag from his hands. Although I couldn't be sure, his bold and reckless behavior led me to believe that this was, in fact, the same primate who had dared to assault my mother.

I think he may have recognized me as well. Seconds after destroying the shopping bag of the Dutchman in front of me, he turned and charged toward me. I threw a banana at him, hoping he would be placated. He kept coming. I threw the entire bunch at him, hitting him in the chest. That slowed him down a little but he continued running at me, and I started to scream. Then the monkey climbed up my legs and chest, and I could only assume that he was going for the jugular. Fortunately I was holding my camera in my hand and punched him in the face as he reached my neck. He fell backwards onto the ground.

At this point, tourists were staring and taking pictures. The Dutchman sympathized with me and gave me more bananas. I should have been the bigger person; I should have just moved on. But instead I turned and yelled at the insolent monkey, who was guarding my fallen bananas, "You stupid monkey JERK."

I kid you not, that monkey understood. He immediately took off for me again. I had turned to run when an Indonesian "Monkey Forest Employee," a.k.a. a man wearing a dirty blue shirt, intervened. I assumed he had some strategies to calm the monkey, which I guess in a way, he did. He simply kicked the monkey in the chest and sent him flying into the forest.

I was briefly concerned for the monkey's health. After all, he was supposed to be sacred. But he got up right away and sat sullenly off the path, chastised. I turned to the Indonesian man, fearing a rebuke. But he just laughed.

"Monyet gila!" he said happily. Yes, I agreed, dusting off my shirt and straightening my hair, that was one crazy monkey.

The End (I hope)

The Aftermath of a Very Kunkel Christmas

2007-01-03T17:59:00.000+08:00

1. The Internet works again. The day my parents arrived, there was an earthquake in Taiwan that knocked out the Internet for most of Southeast Asia. Countries that care about the Internet and use it to conduct things like, oh I don't know, business, restored connections in 20 hours. Indonesia took about a week.

2. Ten years have been shaved off our lives. We took a horrible little plane (Batavia Airlines) from Denpasar to Surabaya on December 26th. We took off, flew directly into a monsoon, and spent the next hour plunging up and down, shaking back and forth, and (poorly) negotiating massive storm clouds. I cried and gasped so everyone else on the plane could share in my alarm. When we stood up, I shakily told my mother that it was one of the worst flights I'd ever taken. Her response? "Oh, I just thought all Indonesian flights were like that!" Ah, ignorance is indeed bliss.
This would later be amusing to look back on if not for the fact that a plane from another domestic airline, Adams Air, went missing on Monday while completing the trip from Jakarta to Surabaya to Makassar (Sulawesi). After FALSE REPORTS of survivors were given by the airline spokesman (that's Indonesia for you) he admitted that in fact not only had no survivors been found, but the wreckage hadn't either. Boats are combing the Java Sea and the coast of Sulawesi.

3. Exactly one hour after arriving in Malang, Layne found us at Hotel Tugu and passed along the crytic message from the US Embassy that Malang was on terrorist alert and we should absolutely stay away from Western hotels. Like the one my parents were in. Well, the bill was already paid so they stayed there anyway. Take that terrorists! Despite repeated text messages, I never did find out what all the fuss was about.

4. I doubt the students and teachers at my school are ever going to recover from the site of five pale, tall, light-eyed people walking the halls. Or the massive bags of candy canes and chocolate coins. Or just my father, in general. He inspired awe whereever he went (not that he doesn't in America!).

5. My family got to partake in some very excellent and Indonesian modes of transportation--mikrolets, the strange ferry with no passenger seating that runs between Java and Bali, the thirteen hour ride through rice paddies, villages, and mountains to get to Denpasar from Malang. Ask my father to tell you about the petrified forest near Banyuwangi--he's probably having nightmares about it.

Phew. I'll have to recap the rest in detail later. I need to put into words my horror regarding Indonesian domestic flights. I'm still in Bali now--all my plans to get to Lombok have been foiled by my plane phobias and actual/imagined dangers. My first flight attempt on New Year's day went like this:

--Arrive at the airport--no problem
--Take a bus to the airplane, which I assume is Lion Air, since that was the airline I purchased a ticket on and the name on my boarding pass.
--Arrive at the plane--surprise! It's Wings Air! For those of you who have never had the pleasure of seeing a Wings Air plane, on the side is painted the catchy and memorable slogan, "fly is cheap." This particular Wings Air plane also had propellors instead of engines, no place for the checked bags, and an alarming dent in the side.
--Laugh and say out loud, "that's the most dangerous looking plane I've ever seen." No reaction from other passengers. I repeat the statement in Indonesian. Nothing. I begin to worry this is a suicide flight everyone knows about except me. Everyone else boards. I ask that my bags be taken off the plane. The men laugh and say no. I revert to age 3 and stamp my foot and cry. The bags are removed from the plane and dropped onto my feet. I'm bused back to the terminal where I flee back to a villa in Ubud and sleep the rest of the day.

I had another flight booked this morning on Merpati Air, which is owned by the governent and "very very safe," according to my hotel. I fully planned to board the plane this morning, I did. But then it monsooned all night to the extent that branches kept flying into the windows of my room and I couldn't sleep. Around 2:30 I tried to turn on the lamp and got a scorch mark on my hand when all the electricity went out. At 5 am, 1 hour before I was supposed to leave, I received this phone call from the hotel manager, Ketut:

Ketut: Ahhh, Miss Caitlin, maybe because of raining not so safe to fly today. Maybe later yeah? My friend from government call and say maybe no fly until the 6th, weather very dangerous till then, maybe the planes will not work.

Don't have to tell me twice, Ketut. I don't know if it was a ploy to get me to stay longer at the hotel or an actual attempt to save my life, but stay I did. You can get to Lombok by ferry, but in the past five days two Indonesian ferries have sank so that isn't really a viable option either.

So I'm in Bali for the rest of the month. Not as exciting as getting to see some of the other islands, but holing up in a villa in Ubud rather than hurtling through a stormy sky on a plane emblazoned with a gramatically incorrect slogan certainly sits well with me anyday.

*Mental Health Note--Plane Phobias, successfully conquered in late July with the flights to Indonesia, have returned in full force. Ability to take domestic Indonesian flights in the near future--doubtful.

Holiday Plans

2006-12-21T20:51:00.000+08:00

So here's the plan for Kunkel Christmas 2006 Indonesia:

December 23: My parents and sisters leave New York
December 25: They arrive in Bali at noon
December 26: We fly on some bootleg little airline to Surabaya and brave the lumpur panas to get to Malang
December 27-29: Go to my school, get stared at.
December 29: DRIVE back to Bali, arrive in Ubud around midnight
December 30-31: ride elephants, see some Balinese dance and trance, be giant tourists
January 1st: 9 am they leave for New York again

So it's going to be a whirlwind trip. After they leave I'm going to Gili Trawangan in Lombok to go scuba diving and meet up with some of the other ETAs. After that, who knows--I have to whole month off!

"There is a Land Called Passive Aggressiva..."

2006-12-19T23:12:00.000+08:00

That’s a quote from Grey’s Anatomy, just in case you don’t watch the best show on TV. Dr. Shepherd is referring to his wife Addison. I’m referring to pretty much every Javanese person I know. It’s unbelievable the lengths people will go to in order to avoid a confrontation—but at the same time, they make sure you know they’re angry.

So in my previous entry, I talked about how Pak Teddy has clearly been not speaking to me and how he’s angry at me about the motorcycle. I mean, there’s no denying it. We used to speak several times a week; he’d give me rides places, pretty much daily contact. Since we had the pseudo-fight, not a single word from him other than a few threats. I say hello to him and he looks right through me. That is the silent treatment.

So today, Suharyadi sends me this text message: pak teddy wants to know why you did not go to his office today.
Me: was i supposed to?
Suharyadi: i don’t know, that is what he said, what do you think?
(This is classic. No one will say anything of any substance until I do. I decide to be a straight shooter)
Me: i think he is mad at me about the motorcycle because he has not talked to me in three weeks.
Suharyadi: he thinks you are sad and upset with him because you are ignoring him. why are you being this way?

I needed a few deep breaths before I answered that one.

Me: ok, well, i’m not, so i guess i will go to his office tomorrow?
No response.

Another example: Tia, a girl with vague ties to my neighbors, did my laundry for me once (she said her mother did laundry, I wasn’t asking random people to do it). She then charged me about 20 times the normal price and I felt too bad about having someone do my laundry to say no. She also borrowed my motorcycle for two days to do the laundry and threw about 200 miles on the odometer. I know for a fact she lives about 1 km away from my house. After an incredibly awkward scene where I paid her, her mother sat mutely and looked disapproving at the huge amount of money I gave them, and my shock at seeing the odometer of the motorbike, I just decided not to let Tia touch my stuff anymore. She must have felt the weirdness, it was definitely palpable. I saw her today for the first time in a few weeks.

Tia: Hi! So I will do your laundry today for you?
Me: um, no, I’m OK I do it myself now.
Tia: No, no I will come to your house now and get it.
Me: no, no, it’s OK I just cleaned it.
Tia: OK, but you will call only me when you want it done again, OK? Just me. Promise?
Me: mumbling something.
Tia: I was afraid to call you because I thought you did not like me.
Me: Why did you think that?
Tia: I don’t know, because you have not called me in so long and I thought we were friends.

Ah, the classic guilt trip.

Me: No, we’re friends.
Tia: OK so maybe next time I won’t be so scared of you.
Me: …sounds good?

When I have these conversations it’s like I’m outside my body watching, just shaking my head in disbelief. The female teachers at my school are the best at it. When I went to an English speaking conference a few weeks ago and missed classes (it was a requirement from AMINEF), I thought everything was OK. Then almost every teacher in the school came up to me and asked brightly how my “vacation” had been.

Ibu X: Oh, you must have had a nice vacation!
Me: It was an English teaching conference.
Ibu X: You know, no one else had a vacation last week (huge smile).
Me: Neither did I, it was not a vacation, I was working.

Ibu X claps me affectionately on the shoulder.

Ibu X: Such a lucky girl! So many vacations, never has to work to make money.

After a few of these conversaations, I just started agreeing with everyone that my vacation was great. When in Rome...or Passive Aggressiva.

Fact or Fiction

2006-12-15T14:53:00.000+08:00

While playing “50 States Trivia Jeopardy: Extreme Version” in my classes this week, my students managed to come up with these illuminating answers:

Missouri is a Northern state
The Civil War was fought over the Indians and their headdresses
Miami is the largest state
Vancouver is the smallest state
John F. Kennedy was the first president of the United States
Abraham Lincoln was the second
New Hampshire? That’s not a state!
Abortions are illegal in the US
Cocaine is most definitely legal
Alaska was the first state to sign the Declaration of Independence
George W. Bush is from Hawaii.
U.C.L.A. is a famous Ivy League university in Boston
True or False: in America, you can have free sex with anyone you want, all the time.
Forty voices: TRUUUUUEEE!!!!

Carry on kids, you’re doing just fine.

No Matter What the Languge, Money Spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E

2006-12-15T14:47:00.000+08:00

There’s been some tension the last few weeks with my school. Back in September, the school budget bought a motorcycle that I was going to rent for the year for the astronomical rate (in Indonesia!) of $500. After I left, the school would keep the bike and use it. They were clearly getting the better end of the deal. The only things I asked for were lessons and help getting a license.

Flash forward three months: I have received exactly one lesson on how to shift gears, and there is no license in sight. Pak Teddy took the registration papers from me so I’m not legal to ride the bike on the road. For all intensive purposes the bike sits in my house and does nothing—except for the weekend Pak Teddy “kept it safe for me” while I was in Bali and added 300 miles onto the odometer.

Despite the fact that I’ve never driven it on the road, Pak Teddy repeatedly asked me for the $500. Money is an extremely touchy subject here. Everyone assumes that because I’m American, I have lots of it—and most people feel a weird entitlement to it. I get charged 20 times as much as other people to get my laundry done, and Layne and I have been told numerous times that we’re paying absurd prices for our motorbikes. It really irritates me because when you try to haggle with someone over a price, they just put a blank look on their face and refuse to negotiate. And since I DO have more money than them, I always end up feeling bad and paying Rp. 100,000 to do my laundry when I know my neighbors pay Rp. 8,000 for the same amount.

However, $500 is not the same as eighty cents. I told the school I wasn’t paying them anything until they got me the license and gave me lessons. They dragged their feet for another three weeks, still asking me every day for the money. The breaking point came when I realized that the school treasury had paid for the bike, not Pak Teddy himself. It was pretty clear that when he asked me for five hundred dollars, “in cash only” it would at least partially be going into his own pocket. And the thing is, that’s fine here. No one would see a problem with Teddy overcharging me so he could keep a $100 for himself. To put it in perspective, $100 is how much a teacher at SMA 3 makes in a month.

This is a dilemma for me. I feel bad that I have more money than the people I work with. I feel bad I can afford to travel. I even feel bad that I can eat at McDonald’s whenever I want. But at the same time, it really hurts me when I realize that people I trusted, like my school contacts, are essentially trying to steal from me because they think it doesn’t matter to a rich American.

I finally said I was returning the bike and not paying the money since the school had not held up its side of the bargain. That’s when I was really surprised. Pak Teddy has treated me well since I’ve arrived—some strange comments and offers to give me “reflexology,” but nothing too bad. But after I put my foot down, he lost it. He tried intimidating me for a few days—demanding the money, staring at me angrily while speaking to me through a translator. It didn’t bother me so much as demonstrate the kind of tactics men use on women here. If I was an Islamic woman, I probably would have been expected to defer immediately. I’ve never seen a female teacher at the school oppose anything a male teacher says, even when it’s obviously they didn’t want to do something like cover all the male teacher’s classes. That Teddy dared to try those tactics on me just made me sure that he had been trying to scam me all along. After a few days he stopped speaking to me all together. Someone should tell him that the silent treatment only works if the person you’re ignoring actually cares if you like them or not.

The second part of the Teddy problem came to a head when it turned out Nelly, my coordinator at AMINEF, had been calling Teddy for two weeks trying to confirm my schedule. He’d been screening her calls the entire time and refusing to call her back. Finally, she had to call the principal, Pak Tri, to get to Teddy. Once she had him on the phone apparently he yelled at her, told her about the motorcycle (which I hadn’t) and generally bitched about me. I talked to Nelly afterward and said I would work things out myself.

I understand what happened—I made Teddy lose face when I refused to pay for the bike. That I feel bad about. But the thing that is so different from American culture is that he didn’t see WHY I had refused. When I brought up the lessons and license, he repeatedly said it didn’t matter and only the money mattered. I don’t think he ever planned on getting me either.

So we don’t speak anymore. I was really scared the school was angry at me too. But today I had a meeting with Principal Tri and Suharyadi. Turns out they’ve actually seen the problem from my side and just cut Teddy out of the line of communication. I no longer deal with him and just clear things with the principal. They were very concerned that I was still happy, and as a gesture of goodwill gave me the entire month of January off. So now I can use some of my surplus American dollars to travel to Sulawesi and Sumatra. .

Finally, I told Teddy through a translator that as his coworker, I could not be disrespected and threatened. I asked Suharyadi to tell him that I am no longer going to associate with him outside of school, but that message probably didn’t get passed along. I’m a little glad things worked out this way. No matter how normal the other teachers said it was, I was always creeped out every time he suggested I “sleep over” at his house with his children. I’m trying to be culturally sensitive here, but sleeping at a male coworker’s house when you have a perfectly good house of your own in the same city is never going to be OK with me.

I Hate Brownies

2006-12-13T22:16:00.001+08:00

I am STILL trying to turn in my grad school apps. Working frantically this afternoon (well, as frantically as one can claim to be working after a three hour nap), I reached a wall. My neighbor's puppy, Brownies, would not stop whining. Having seen the size of the cage they keep him in, I couldn't really blame him, but nevertheless it was incredibly annoying. The dog clearly wanted food, attention, or more than two inches to move his body parts.
Now, I am very patient with my neighbor's animals. I deal with the parrot who cat calls me and imitates a train whistle and car alarm at two o'clock in the morning, I'm apparently the only person who likes their flea-ridden older dog Stephanie, and I have been coaxed into feeding their birds on numerous occassions. I didn't even make a fuss last time Brownies and I hung out and he peed all over my "Rhode Island: The Best Little State in the USA" t-shirt.
But this high pitched whining was driving me crazy. Finally, I went over with one of the delicious maple syrup cookies my grandparents mailed me (and I very much wanted to eat myself) and fed it to Brownies. He kept crying. I offerred to "play with him" in my house for the rest of the afternoon since the 18 people who live at my neighbor's house were too busy lounging in the road to take care of him. So over he came.
I don't know if they abused him or what, but this puppy WILL NOT shut up. I've given him the Indonesian version of a dog toy--old pieces of newspaper twisted together--and he wasn't amused. I let him sleep in my bed, but then he wet himself (and incidentally my only pair of sheets) after less than five minutes. After I chastised him for his lack of bladder control he started passive aggressively eating my disgusting boat shoes.
My neighbor just called through my window that maybe I should feed him a brownie. That would be valid if I had ever seen a brownie in all of Indonesia, nevermind Malang. Right now he's locked in the back bedroom (which looks like a room in a mental hospital, complete with blueish lighting). He's been quiet for almost 30 seconds, which is long enough that I should probably check to make sure he's not dead from eating an ant trap. Since you get the death penalty for dealing drugs here, I can only imagine what the penalty for murdering isolent puppies is. I miss Patches Kunkel! R.I.P. 1993-2006

Delicious

2006-12-13T22:16:00.000+08:00

Human body parts found inside croc

POSTED: 6:42 a.m. EST, December 6, 2006

JAKARTA, Indonesia (AP) -- Villagers discovered two human hands, a leg and a T-shirt inside a 500-kilogram (1,000-pound) crocodile they trapped and killed in eastern Indonesia, a media report said Wednesday.

The five-meter long reptile, suspected of eating a 59-year-old fisherman last seen a week ago near a river in East Nusa Tenggara province, was hacked open by residents after it got caught Monday in a nylon snare, The Jakarta Post said.

When the villagers got over the shock of finding human body parts inside its abdomen -- together with skull fragments, strands of hair and a pair of shorts -- they cut the beast into pieces and divided up the meat.

It was unclear how many people the crocodile had eaten, but the paper said at least three have disappeared in recent months, all while fishing at the mouth of the Dusan II River.

The crocodile -- and at least two others believed to be still at large -- are also suspected of devouring dozens of cattle, pigs, goats and poultry.

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press.

Yes, I'm Available for Hire

2006-11-30T14:15:00.000+08:00

I’ve been trying to complete my grad school applications for a few days now and the final push has been the most difficult. Knowing myself, I read all the magazines in my house and hid my DVDs so I wouldn’t be tempted. I eliminated all food so there would be no “snack breaks.” In theory, I should be forced to complete my essays just from a sheer lack of anything better to do.

Instead of funneling my creativity into my writing sample, I’ve been putting it to the evil use of finding more and more unusual ways to procrastinate. I’ve already knocked down spider webs, experimented with the bug poison and the proximity I can put it to my food before I start to get sick, and created several interesting feng shui arrangements with my few pieces of furniture. This afternoon though, I decided to try something new, namely washing my own clothes in my mandi, a.k.a. a pail of water.

I chose my heinous school uniform for the experience and dug out the bag of powdered detergent someone had given me as a gift when I moved in. I filled the mandi up, dumped in about half the bag, and threw my uniform in, waiting expectantly. I sloshed the bubbles around a little, but I wasn’t really sure of proper handwashing techniques. I think I probably should have used one of those laundry boards people cleaned with back in the old days.

Very quickly, I realized I’d used too much soap. The bubbles climbed three feet in a matter of seconds to start pouring over the edge of the mandi. I shut off the water, but they somehow kept getting bigger. I used my little mandi pail to dump the bubbles over the side, trying to convince them to go down the drain. All they did was convince the worms in the drains to pop their heads out into the bathroom and start climbing up my door. I turned the water back on to dilute the bubbles, but they were in control and they knew it. The barrage of bubbles flowed over the ledge of the bathroom and started going into my bedroom and living room floors. I was briefly upset, but then went and borrowed my neighbor’s mop and mopped the floors instead.

There’s only one problem—the bubbles still won’t go down the drain. Now I have a collection of dark brown, ashy bubbles in my bedroom, clouds of white bubbles chest high in my bathroom, and a school uniform that, sadly, doesn’t look any cleaner at all. I guess I’ll just host a foam party tonight and we can have a rager at Mayjen Wiyono. I’ll provide the Bintangs!

Thanksgiving Odyssey

2006-11-28T18:12:00.000+08:00

Thanksgiving was a much needed long weekend out of Malang and into the two largest cities in Java—Surabaya, the regional capital of East Java, and then back to our old stomping ground Jakarta, where we stayed for a month when we first arrived in Indonesia.

Before I start this entry, I have to back up and talk a little about lumpur panas, more commonly known as hot/toxic mud. For four months now this mysterious mud has been pouring out of the ground in Sidoarjo, a province near Surabaya. The oil company Lapindo has been accused of causing the mud flow with their drilling, but the company is refusing to take any responsibility for the natural disaster. SBY and the Indonesian government didn’t comment until the third month of the mudflow, and then the decision was made to start dumping the excess mud into the ocean and rivers (?).

Sidoarjo is right in between Malang and Surabaya. There’s a toll road, but you never know when it’s going to be open. Unfortunately for Layne and I, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving the toll road was definitively closed. The two hour ride ended up taking almost six hours in our horrible little van, which in theory was supposed to pick people up from their houses in Malang and drop them off directly in Surabaya two hours later. In practice, I sat the whole way with my feet the level of my eyes because the only place for my suitcase was right in front of me, we took back village roads, and the driver almost flipped the van using some vertical mud path as a shortcut. Once we arrived in Surabaya, the driver took another two hours to find everyone else’s addresses before finally dropping Layne and I off at the Sheraton. I guess that’s $4 transportation for you.

We were staying with Mary Beth, a government employee who works in P.R. and tries to make sure none of the ETAs in East Java kill themselves or make anti-American comments. She lives in a fabulous apartment in the five star Sheraton, and Layne and I were only too happy to stay there for free. Shortly after we got there, Mary Beth got a call on her “duty phone” that there had been an explosion on the toll road. The pressure from all of the mud had pressed on a gas line until it finally snapped, and I can just see someone throwing a cigarette butt down unwittingly (EVERYONE smokes here) and lighting the whole thing on fire. Eleven people were killed, and the roads were completely shut down. One of the other ETAs, Amanda, was en route from Probolinggo and no one could get in touch with her for about an hour, so they were pretty frantic. Fortunately she had just been asleep while stuck in traffic and was fine.

Thanksgiving morning we went to a home for orphaned and abused children, many of whom had lost their parents to trafficking of some sort. They ranged in age from about 2 until 15 or 16, and they seemed pretty happy that we were there. After Mary Beth spouted some propaganda on the “Thanksgiving story,” we gave them lunches and passed out goody bags. The kids almost killed one another grabbing for the bags, and it was really sad to see how frantic they were to get something of value. They didn’t really want it for the goodies themselves, since most of them probably sold everything in the bags as soon as we left, but they were so scared that they were going to get skipped over and not receive anything. We watched a video and left after about an hour. It was a pretty good trip but distressing at the same time.

After the orphanage we went to Claire the Consular General’s house for a Thanksgiving lunch/early dinner. When she was working in Vietnam she adopted a little boy named Luca, who’s now 4. That kid was adorable, and I don’t like kids. He was very well mannered and polite, and although he started off shy, he had turned into a big flirt by the end of the afternoon.

Claire cooked an absolutely fabulous meal—turkey, real cranberry sauce, stuffing with bacon, gravy—everything you could ask for. I ate as much as I could possibly stuff in and then enjoyed some of the homemade pumpkin pie. One of the guests was the US government worker in charge of the lumpur panas, who told us that the explosion had knocked open the dams holding the mud, which was likely going to take out the train tracks in a few weeks. Great news. There were also some former Peace Corps volunteers and a man who worked for USAID, as well as the Regional Security Officer for Surabaya, who was NOT a man I'd want to mess with. Most of the people there had been working security and P.R. at George Bush's visit earlier that week, so it was really interesting to hear all the behind-the-scenes details.

Right after lunch, Claire offered her car to Layne and I and we headed for the airport. We took off for Jakarta, where there was a driver waiting to take us to the Hotel Dharmawangsa, by far the nicest hotel I’ve ever been in. Layne’s family friend Gary had arranged for us to stay there for the weekend, just relaxing and being girly. We hung around our lavish room in bathrobes, got a half-day spa treatment, and trusted Indonesian hair stylists to put bleach on our heads (which actually didn’t turn out half bad!).

The second night in Jakarta we went to another Thanksgiving dinner, this one at the home of some American expats who were in Indonesia working in oil. Again, great food, great company, and an opportunity to meet some really interesting people. Someone made a deep-fried turkey that was so delicious (and yes, I know that’s white trash of me to say so) and I just ate my little heart out.

Other luxuries we indulged in in Jakarta: Silver Bird luxury taxis, chocolate martinis at the Dharma, Sumatran coffee, and a movie theater with adjustable recliners and blankets where butlers bring you food and drinks. I’m sure the new James Bond movie is good anywhere, but in that setting I would have thought any movie was an Oscar contender.

I left Layne heading to the golf course with Gary on Sunday morning as Nick and I went to the airport. Back to reality: I waited standby for three different flights to Surabaya, where the general rule seemed to be whoever pushed to the counter hardest got the seat. There was no list or ranking. I’m ashamed to say I became a stereotype here: The American Who Gets Frazzled In Airports And Yells At People.

After I missed the second flight after three hours because some Japanese chick elbowed me out of the way and got to the counter first, I was very cranky. By the time another hour had passed and I was standing again in standby, I knew the drill. I cut two Dutch men and demanded the last remaining economy ticket. The two men poked me and complained that I had cheated them, and were treating to me screaming in their face that I was a teacher and had to work in the morning. They talked about me angrily in Dutch for a while, but must of concluded I had a mental illness and it was best not to mess with me. The airline tried to check my bag, but since it was 4:52 and the flight left at 5, I sincerely doubted the Indonesian golf cart would get my luggage into the underbelly of the plane in time. I ran to the plane and got into another fight with the flight attendant, who of course refused to let me take my oversized suitcase on as a carry on:

Flight Attendant: “You must check that.”
Me: “No.”
FA: “Yes, now.”
Me: “No. I don’t trust you to put it under the plane.”
FA: “Give me that bag.”
Me: “I’m not going to let the plane leave until I see you put that under the plane.”
FA: “GIVE ME THE BAG.”

I finally made it to my seat at 5:10 (yes I delayed the whole flight, how important I am!) only to find an Indonesian man there. He very gentlemanly offered me the middle seat between him and his smirking companion, and got a cold glare in return and a barked order to move over. He didn’t talk to me again after that. His companion did tell me that if I took a bus to Malang it would take eight hours because the roads were overrun with mud, and I would be looted and raped numerous times. I paid $30 and took a taxi, which took less than two hours and ended with the cab driver trying to hussle me for 50 more cents at my front gate. God, it’s good to be back in village life.

Never Too Late To Give Thanks

2006-11-28T17:23:00.000+08:00

I've been noticing that on a lot of my friend's blogs, they had an entry on what they were thankful for in Indonesia. Well, here's me jumping on the bandwagon:

Things I'm Thankful For in Indonesia:

industrial size cans of bug poison
the Internet
books (in English)
school uniforms (even with their air of Communism)
headbands and hair elastics (for keeping my sweaty hair off my neck and face)
boat shoes
my mandi
the ability to pretend not to understand when someone asks you for a favor in Indonesian
Pocari Sweat (Indonesia's answer to Gatorade)
Isotonik (Indonesia's answer to Pocari Sweat)
literally stumbling across an outdated gossip magazine on the floor of the Malang bookstore
bakpia (cakes from Yogyakarta)
getting really good e-mails
getting to sit in the front of the mikrolet by myself instead of in the back with 15 other people
marble floors
that everyone uses text messages instead of talking on the phone (I'm a bad phone talker)
staying in five star hotels courtesy of Uncle Sam

There was lots to be happy about this Thanksgiving!

Anti-Bush Rally

2006-11-18T19:04:00.000+08:00

What's In A Name?

2006-11-17T22:28:00.000+08:00

I confessed to one of my grade 11 classes this week that I didn't know any of their names. They're written on their shirts, but some of them have three names and I never know which one to use. Here are some of the most interesting ones:

One of my favorite boys in that class is named Syahreza (Shah-ray-za), which he claims means, "King of the World." I'm not sure I trust that translation, but I like the name anyway.
The words "indah" and "ayu" mean beautiful in Indonesian, and a lot of kids have those words tossed into their names at some point. I have some girls whose names are just "Indah," and then I have chicks like "Christyayu," which literally means "beautiful Christy." I think these are the most beautiful names (lame pun intended!)
Some of the girl's names are just not attractive-sounding to me--like Nindah, Wenty, and Prahiwi.
There are variations on names I know--like Erik, Kristian, Irene, and Diane. But don't be deceived--they're not definitely not pronounced the same. Erik is more like "arrreek" and Diane is "deeahnn." I usually just tell these kids that they're going to get an American pronounciation if they ever want me to know their names.
Then I have the absolutely impossible to pronounce/read/pretend to understand names. Face it kids--you will never hear your name come out of my mouth, Virgonesia Cahya P. Nor will you, Novia Diah Permatasari. And I'm not even sure I could get yours out in one breath, Anak Agung Istri Wulan Permata Sain (I wouldn't believe that was a name, but I'm holding his writing assignment with that name on it, and I looked it up on my roster--she (he?) is real!).

After this illuminating discussion I still had a few minutes to kill, so I asked them if they could have any name in the world, what would it be. I should have known better than to ask them that...although it would be a lot easier if everyone in my classes were named Kobe Bryant or LeBron James.

Caitlin's Corner

2006-11-17T21:58:00.000+08:00

This Monday I got suckered into running another teacher's English conversation class after school. Rather than actually teach any kind of lesson, I decided to host "Caitlin's Corner," basically a forum where everyone agreed that they could ask me any question if I could ask them any question. I'm not entirely sure everyone understood the disclaimer, but I forged ahead any way. Some speaking points we covered:

"Do you guys think it's OK to be gay?"
The answer was overwhelmingly no. Some of the more articulate kids actually made some very thoughful comments. Iraky, one of the kids in my class who actually might be gay, said that homosexuality was not allowed in the Qu'ran or Islam. When I asked him what he would do if his brother turned out to be gay, he said he would be very upset because his brother was going to lead a very hard life outside of society. I was impressed with his vocab and his emotion when he talked about it. Maybe it hits close to home...

"Who knows what the Holocaust is?"
Like I wrote earlier, I have a sneaking suspicion that when Suharto censored Indonesian history books, he eliminated any mention of the Holocaust. These kids confirmed it. Not only had they never heard the term "Holocaust," but only three of them had ever heard of Hitler. After I explained what happened during the Holocaust, a few of them denied that it could have occurred. I told them next week we're going to watch "Schindler's List," which probably shouldn't get back to the principal. They listened very intently when I talked and most of them seemed a little shocked that they didn't know about the Holocaust. I moved on to a new topic when they started to ask some pretty gruesome questions about death camps.

"What do you think about abortion?"
We couldn't even discuss this one. Everyone in the class, about fifteen kids, said unequivically that it was wrong and would never, ever be allowed to happen in Indonesia. Although I doubted the truth of that statement, they were pretty adamant about it.

"Euthanasia? Anyone?"
After clearing up the obvious "youth in asia" confusion, there wasn't much more to say. Under absolutely no circumstance would anyone in the room consider the other side of the issue. They said euthanasia was murder (and for the record I agreed with them, just trying to get them to use critical thinking skills), and one girl asked if Americans always murdered their parents like that...so I had to suspend discussion and reassure everyone that no, we don't all kill our parents when they get old. I'm pretty sure no one fully understood what I was talking about.

"Would you ever date or marry someone who wasn't a Muslim?"
Again, no. Not just for religious reasons though--one of the girls in the room who was wearing a jialbab suddenly spoke up and said Islam was like a culture and way of life and it would be difficult to marry someone who didn't share your upbringing and way of doing things. She got an A for the day for that comment. Iraky conceded that he would consider marrying a Christian, but NEVER a Hindu or Buddhist. He didn't really give a reason. The one Christian girl in the room said she wouldn't marry a Muslim because she didn't want her kids raised "that way," and then I hurredly brought the discussion to an end.

"Who can think of an important debate issue in Indonesia?"
I was thinking something political, maybe along the lines of what we had been talking about. Iraky's hand shot up:
"I think it's terrible that Miss Indonesia cannot compete in the Miss Universe pageant because she does not wear a swimsuit. In Islam, you cannot draw attention to your body like that, and the Miss Universe pageant should accept that."
OK....well, I guess that's a valid point. I gave Iraky an A+ for the day.

I think Caitlin's Corner went pretty well. All the kids listened the whole time and contributed. There's always the danger that they're missing key points and misunderstanding a concept (or just chalking it up to the immorality of Western culture) so I tried to make everything clear. I get the feeling they get talked down to a lot, and I know their English is underestimated. I went into the class pissed that I had them unloaded on me, but it ended up being the best class I went to this week.

Just One More

2006-11-17T21:41:00.000+08:00

Dear Doctor,
I've problem and I think I should talk it to you. I'm a doctor. I've problem with my patients. I've fallen in love with 9 of 10 patients. The worst thing is, I've got many dating with them. Doc, it's a big problem. It's abnormal. You know why? Because I'm a VET!
xx, somewhere

Dear "xx,"
I'll give you good advice. This place is very suitable for you. That place is in Jakarta. Just take a taxi and to the driver "Grogol Mental Hospital Sir!"

Cast:
doctor: Syifa S.S./x4/35
xx: Rahadini W.H. x4/40

Some Serious Problems

2006-11-17T00:24:00.000+08:00

Well...kind of. I had the kids write advice columns today with extra points for being creative. I guess they thought I meant with their English grammar. Here are a few of the most legible exactly as they were submitted:

Dear Oryza,
I have a cat. His name is Nuno Gomez. He is a percian cat. I usually called him "Nunu." His colored is light grey and spotted with dark grey. He is so overweight! His weight is 4.5 kg. Imagine, almost 5 kg for a cat! I want to make him work out, but he is such a lazy cat. Besides, I want to make his colour to be white or orange. How can I make it? By the way, he likes to eat chocolate and chili! Is that something wrong with my cat?
Thanks,
Dizzy

Dear Dizzy,
I think, your cat is an executive cat because he likes chocolate. It's easy to make your cat work out. He is a cat, alright? If he a trully cat, of course he like to catch mouse. To make him work out, you can put a mouse toys in front of him and band it with rope. You can pull the rope to make the 'mouse' move and I think your cat will catch that 'mouse.' But, if your cat just see the 'mouse' doesn't try to catch it, you can pick up your cat to psychiatrist.
And for your second problem, that you want to make your cat to be white or orange, you can bring your cat to the 'Barber shop' for cat. Maybe, there's some steps to make your cat colorful.

Dear Ali,
I have a problem about my body in football. My skill is good but my body is not support me. My body is tin but tall, so I have a problem to control the ball. I know you dislike enough football, but it is my favourite sport. I have organized my food and sport, but I still tin and can't control the ball well.
Yours,
M. Riza V

How! friend
don't think about the body. your body better than me, your skill too. Just reorganized your food,
Two word that important to football player like you
"Don't Sick"
Don't smoke, Don't drunk, Don't Die
Be a vegetarian!

Dearest Go Girls,
Me and my friend have a lot of trouble. A lot of people hate us and want to lay us! Maybe they jealous to us because we're so fabulous! Many people frighten us with scary voices through the phone. Sometimes people try to throw us with disgusting things. So far, we try to be patient, but day to day, they're getting worse. What should we do?

Answer:
Well, that's risk of being popular. You should always bring knife in your bag so you can throw them.

That's some valid advice right there.

Making Friends?

2006-11-12T22:22:00.000+08:00

I went out with Rima tonight, a girl I met at Brawaijaya University when I went to visit the law students there. She’s eighteen and really a sweet girl, but she exemplifies one of my biggest problems with making friends here—she’s terrified of me. She’s scared her English isn’t good enough to speak with me (she actually speaks fantastically well), scared that I won’t be happy, and scared that she is irritating/bothering me.

She called the other night to ask me about American Corner (the AMINEF office at Mohammadiyah University) and she could barely speak on the phone. I asked her to go to dinner with me so we could talk face to face and maybe she could calm down.

She sent me two text messages confirming that I was actually going to go to dinner with her (people really see me as a paragon of unreliability, which I think it odd because I have yet to miss a single appointment of any sort) and when she picked me up in her car she couldn’t look at me. The more nervous she is, the worse her English gets, so it was rough going for a while. Eventually she calmed down and stopped referring to her father as “she” and talking about “her work as an architect” (Bahasa Indonesia uses the word “dia” for both he and she, and so the most common mistake people make is arbitrarily using he or she to describe men or women. Some people always use he, some prefer she).

I like Rima because she answers all my questions. She doesn’t wear a jialbab because she feels she isn’t a pious enough Muslim to wear it yet. She has a boyfriend who is older than her that she lies to her mom about. She doesn’t dislike Chinese people, but there is a definite prejudice against them in Java because they’re so wealthy. Her grammar wasn’t always perfect, but she understood everything I said which is better than 99.99% of the people I meet here, including all of my students.

I wonder though if I can ever really have a friend here—like a true friend. One of us would always be speaking a language that isn’t our native tongue, and that makes things difficult since it’s so hard to hold conversations in a language you’re still trying to learn. Rima seemed like she was walking on eggshells with me the whole time—when honestly, I was just happy to have something to talk to and eat dinner with. She asked me very seriously if it would be OK, not a problem, not a burden, if I would go to her house for dinner and meet her mother. Maybe her mother would want to give me presents too? Is that OK? I was like, girl, anytime you want to give me free food and presents that is way more than OK.

We went and had our pictures taken in one of those photo booths (on HER suggestion, I would never do that on my own volition) and that girl was so happy. Is it possible for us to be friends if I’m this exalted figure to her? I know she’s going to flash those pictures around to show people her American buddy, which is fine, but am I really her friend, or am I some kind of status symbol?

By far the most interesting thing Rima said tonight was when we were waiting in line to get ice-cream. I was talking about my favorite movies and I mentioned Schindler’s List. She said, “Oh ya, that was very bad what those Germans did to the Jewish people,” and I was like, “yeah the Holocaust.” Then the girl says, “What was the Holocaust?” I thought she just didn’t know the phrase so I explained the Holocaust, but no—she had never heard of the Holocaust. In fact, she said that Holocaust is not taught in Indonesian high schools or middle schools. I was horrified. I told her it was one of the worst events to occur in the history of humanity, and she just looked at me blankly. This a law student at one of Malang’s largest universities. If that’s true, and they really don’t teach the Holocaust here…then I really don’t know what to say. I know the books were censored in the Sukarto regime, which ended in 1998, so maybe that’s why Rima doesn’t know anything about the Holocaust—but I was so shocked I almost dropped my McFlurry.

Interesting Insects

2006-11-12T13:46:00.000+08:00

1. Did you know cockroaches make a high pitched squealing sound when you spray them in the face with poison?

2. You can buy "chalk" in the grocery store to put around your bed so no ants can climb into it...I chalked my whole room yesterday, and then watched as the ants walked right over the line and into my bed. What a waste of nine cents.

3. Speaking of ants in my bed, the other day I was taking a nap after school. I fell asleep at 1 and woke up around 3 because I was itchy. I looked down, and there were about 200 ants crawling all over me. I debated screaming for a minute--but no one would have heard me and even if someone heard, no one would have done anything. So I stumbled to the bathroom, poured buckets of cold water over myself, picked the ants out of my hair and from between my toes, and then ripped the sheets off my bed, shook them off, and put them back on the bed. Less than five minutes after I woke up, I went back asleep for another two hours. Maybe I'm just losing all sense of what personal hygience should be like, but the fact that ants were crawling on me when I was sleeping was more of an annoyance than an earth-shattering problem...

4. In regards to parasites, the smallest insects I do battle with, I have an issue I've been pondering for a while. I used Listerine occasionally in the US, and although it tasted disgusting it wasn't terrible to use. I have Indonesian Listerine here that I use religiously every day--and either I have really bad parasites in my mouth or there is some kind of acid in the mouthwash here. For ten minutes after I wash my mouth out, my tongue and cheeks go completely numb. Maybe they put a special ingredient in to take care of the unseen enemy--either way, my mouth feels pretty clean when the feeling comes back.

Indonesia: +200

2006-11-07T22:56:00.000+08:00

I was running late for a meeting today and I was starving, so I ducked into an Indonesian Wendy's to grab lunch. Having already had my heart broken at Indonesian KFC and McDonald's when they didn't have biscuits or sweet n'sour sauce, respectively, I wasn't expecting much. Indonesian Wendy's probably didn't even have Biggie Sizes.
Well I am eating a big slice of humble pie right now. Not only did Indonesian Wendy's have Biggie Sizes (which I pretended to deliberate, then obviously biggied my meal) but they have SPICY CHICKEN SANDWICHES.
Let me back up. Earlier this summer my world was shattered when Wendy's in America took the Spicy Chicken Sandwich off their menu. It was by far the most delicious thing they offered outside of the 99 cent menu, and I boycotted them to show my anguish.
Fortunately, Indonesian Wendy's didn't get the memo about No More Spicy Deliciousness. I sat in the giant, empty, glass walled Wendy's in Plaza Dieng and ate not one, but TWO spicy chicken sandwiches while a crowd of Indonesian men sat on the other side of the wall and stared at me. Let them stare. Indonesian Wendy's, I salute you.

Holiday

2006-11-06T21:09:00.000+08:00

Living on the Edge

2006-11-05T20:32:00.000+08:00

AMINEF seems to have forgotten to put our next two month's worth of pay into our bank accounts, so my current operating budget is Rp. 17,000, more commonly known as $1.50. I have to save 20 cents for public transport tomorrow, so I have about a $1 to spend on dinner. Luckily I can get a delicious martabak from the dudes across the street for that much. As for tomorrow, I don't know. Maybe I'll buy some finger cymbals and beg with the other kids on the street.

Sometimes We Need to Filter Our Thoughts...

2006-11-03T22:40:00.000+08:00

While on vacation, I enjoyed the usual—good food, some spirits, a general malaise that prohibited exercise. I probably put on about three pounds MAXIMUM, nothing I won’t lose when I contract my next virus from eating the street food.

I walked into the teacher’s room yesterday armed with seaweed candy and the proper vocabulary to discuss my travels. Before I could say a word, however, three or four teachers ran up to me and exclaimed in delight over how incredibly fat I had gotten on vacation.

“So fat, so happy!” One of them said. Another attempted to pinch my “fat” cheek (which she couldn’t do) and said, “yes, very fat now, more beautiful!” The other teachers in the room nodded in contentment at the sight of my fat face.

They warned us in Jakarta that people will use the word “fat” to mean “healthy”—but damn, walking into a room of people who haven’t seen you in three words and being called a fattie is NOT a good way to come off a great vacation. I sat in the corner and sulked for a while, and then these two ridiculous conversations occurred:

1) Continuing the topic of my obesity and its relationship to my beauty, Ibu Dina and Ibu Dia (yes that’s right, almost the same name—there’s also Dino, Dwi, Dito, and Dio) sat down now to me.

Ibu Dia: I think you are much more beautiful now that you are fat.
Ibu Dina: Oh, no, she is not beautiful now, her nose is red (sunburned)
Ibu Dia: But I think because she is fat it is OK.
Ibu Dina: No, I think much less beautiful with the dark skin, even though fatter.
Ibu Dia: Yes maybe when she is white and fat, she will be most beautiful

I was sitting right next to these women as they had this conversation, in English. Disgruntled and fearing my fat fist was about to go into their faces, I turned to my left to talk to Pak Yosuf, one of the other English teachers. He is endlessly fascinated with Americans in general, and often asks questions like, “but I thought Americans hated dark skinned people, how can you like us?” He said he had another question for me.

Pak Yosuf: So Caitlin, if I meet a friend, a very close friend, who I haven’t seen for a long time, would it be polite if I said to him, “I have a very good bitch at home?”
Me: (spitting out water) Like, a very good dog?
PY: No, like my wife. A very good bitch.
Me: Um, you’re not really supposed to refer to your wife as your bitch.
PY: But I see it on TV. Maybe that is how truckers talk?
Me: Yeah, I guess a trucker might say that. Bitch is a bad word, why would you call your wife a bitch?
PY: Just talking to my friend, joking about my bitch.
Me: Yeah…well I guess that’s OK then.

WHERE DO THEY GET THESE IDEAS???

Part I: Enchantment and Disenchantment in Legian

2006-11-02T21:25:00.000+08:00

Vacation was pretty epic. I ended up spending four days in Legian and Seminyak (south Bali), one day in Lovina (north Bali), one day in transit to the east of Bali and Lombok, the island to the west, two days in Senggigi, Lombok, and then eight days on Gili Trawangan, the largest of the three Gili Islands off the coast of Lombok. Along the way I had my cell phone stolen (Senggigi), made my first friend who only spoke Indonesian (Legian), and picked up my advanced scuba diving certification (Gili Trawangan). So all in all a successful two and a half weeks.

I procured my Indonesian friend my first night in Legian when I was eating dinner alone near the hotel. Her name was Yuli, and I impressed her by consuming two appetizers, one pizza, and three drinks in a little less than 20 minutes. Her intro was: “Wow, much food for one girl, ya?” It was meant to be. After the usual Indonesian banter (where are you from, what is your job, what is your religion, do you have a boyfriend), we made plans to meet up the next day and go to Tanah Lot, the place where I saw the 5,000 kecek dancers last time I was in Bali.

She picked me up in the morning on her motorbike and we took off. It was a really beautiful ride and Yuli was a safe driver so I could enjoy it. I still ride in back like a dork though—most Indonesians don’t hang onto anything (except maybe a cigarette or a soda) but I clutch onto the back bar to avoid falling off and cracking my skull. They must have exceptional balance.

We reached Tanah Lot after an hour of rice paddies and wrong turns. I liked the temple even better during the day than I had at night. We walked across the tide pools and received blessings and rice on our foreheads as part of a Hindu ritual (for the fee of Rp. 10,000, of course) and then walked around to the back of the temple. There were no other tourists in back, just me, Yuli, and some Indonesians who were preparing offerings as part of a celebration. I asked if I could watch and they didn’t say no, but they didn’t seem too happy about me being there, either. They walked down to the beach, lit incense in a cave by the water, and then took offerings of food down to the water and prayed as they sent them off into the sea. I felt like a terrible tourist for taking pictures, but I really wanted to! I tried to be unobtrusive, but after some less-than-pious looks in my direction, Yuli and I went up the cliff.

Back at the hotel Elena and Ann, the ETAs from Bandung, had arrived, . We ate lunch and then met up with Hillary, Willow, and Lisa, more ETAs who were staying in Denpasar at Hillary’s house. Hillary is the fortunate soul who was plucked from among the mere ETAs to live in Bali for the year. We ate a delicious dinner by the beach and then tried to sit on the sand, but there was some kind of dog-gang warfare going on so no one could really get comfortable.

I really liked Legian the first time I visited, but this time I definitely got to see the shadier side of things. Traveling without male companions definitely opens women up to a lot more abuse and propositions. Elena and I saw a really disgusting sex act on the side of the street at 7 pm one night walking back from the beach, and I kept getting invited to vague “beach parties,” which I’m pretty sure would involve copious amounts of illegal drugs and probably end with me getting raped. Most guys I encountered in Bali really saw foreign women as walking banks with open legs, and they weren’t shy about making that known.

I don’t usually knock the hustle, but in Kuta it’s extreme and pretty offensive. Women on the beach will grab your feet and start massaging them, refuse to let you pull them away, and then charge you when you finally do rip your foot out of their hands. I gave money to one woman’s child, and then she insisted I give her more because she didn’t know the little girl, even though I had seen her holding the girl two minutes before. Beggars scream “MONEY” at the top of their lungs and try to grab your leg; if you refuse to cooperate, they hiss at you. It’s clear that the Balinese resent most tourists and look down on them, and I can’t really blame them—I wouldn’t want a bunch of drunken Australians or other disgusting foreigners running around my town either. HOWEVER, if the Balinese dislike tourists so much, they need to stop whoring themselves out to them. You can’t bitch about how much you hate tourists when you’re the one selling them the liquor and calling them into your stores. It’s a complicated situation, and at times I feel like I can see both sides of it—but at night when I’m being hassled and grabbed and vaguely threatened, I feel a whole lot less sympathy for the plight of the Balinese men.

A Little Humor

2006-11-02T21:23:00.000+08:00

The following is a joke I heard over and over and over on my vacation:

Me: terima kasih (thank you)
Indonesian: Osama-sama Bin Laden

(hysterical laughter)

The first premise of the joke is that “sama-sama” means “you’re welcome.” The second is apparently that Osama Bin Laden is a funny name. I would like to say I found it offensive, but that lame joke repeatedly followed by laughter was enough to make me join in every time

Swimming With The Fishes

2006-10-23T13:08:00.000+08:00

After a week of last minute decisions involving shuttle vans and boat rides, I've found myself on Lombok, the island to the west of Bali. Tomorrow we're taking a boat to the Gili Islands to get scuba certified, which may or may not be a good idea. We'll see!

From the Jakarta Post:

2006-10-15T23:25:00.000+08:00

Unease in Aceh as Morality Police Crack Down

Teenager Purnama Sari shivers when she recalls how Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam’s religious police ejected her and her girlfriends from their tents in a predawn raid earlier this year.

The teenagers were on a weekend camping retreat in the rugged hills of the province at the northwestern tip of Sumatra—and boys of their age were also there, staying in separate sleeping quarters.

“They were hitting the tents and screaming, ‘Get out, get out!’” says the 18-year-old Islamic boarding school student, who wears a demure long skirt, long-sleeved blouse, and a pastel-colored headscarf, or jilbab.

The men lectured the dozen girls on the risk of committing the sin of khalwat—being illicitly close to a man—before lining them up for identification at the nearest village.

The boys were discreetly taken to a prayer hall, away from prying eyes.

“We felt like prostitutes,” Purnama says, “Villagers were watching us, laughing. All of us girls were crying.”

Purnama is a rare voice willing to criticize the implementation of sharia, or religious law, in Aceh, with few others complaining here for fear of being seen as bad Muslims.

The pace of acceptance of sharia has accelerated across Aceh while many Indonesians elsewhere, who largely practice a more moderate version of the faith, follow developments carefully, some with alarm.

Even the UN’s World Food Program (WFP) has been targeted. The religious police—known formally as Wilayatul Hisbah (WH), taking their name from Iran’s Vice and Virtue Patrol—snuck into their compound last month.

“There was nothing to find and they found nothing,” says WFP spokesperson Charlie Higgins of the incident, which highlighted the lack of clarity surrounding just how non-Muslims are affected by sharia.

Aceh has for centuries been a staunchly Muslim heartland, with separatist rebels fighting for independence from Jakarta for the three decades until last year. However it only began building a framework for sharia from 1999 and the sharia police were tasked with monitoring compliance and warning offenders in 2004.

Islamic courts were given approval to extend their reach to criminal justice in 2001, when a special autonomy law was passed by Jakarta as part of a bid to calm the restive province.

Today public caning and fines are used as punishment for the consumption and sale of alcohol, gambling, and khalwat.

Acehnese refuse to speak out about sharia, rights activist Aguswandi says, because they “are scared of being accused of being anti-Islam, of being targeted, and also because there is no support for a different voice in Aceh.”

For Acehnese women, wearing the veil has never been a tradition—but it may well soon be.

“Allah asked you to wear the jilbab, it’s a sin!” lectures a member of the mobile sharia police to a bare-headed woman sitting at Banda Aceh’s ferry terminal.

Raja Radan, the supervisor of Banda Aceh’s 45-man morality team, insists patrols are only aimed at protecting them from sin.

The head of the sharia department in Aceh, Al Yassa’abubakar, says that sharia “helps create a conducive atmosphere for the economy, prosperity, and justice in Aceh. People can work with peace of mind.”

And By The Way...

2006-10-15T22:19:00.000+08:00

...I'm going to Bali and Lombok tomorrow for two weeks until Lebaran. Gunung Agung, Lovina Beach, some more Kuta and Legian, maybe some boating and snorkeling in Lombok--we'll see!

I Finally Buka Puasa (Well, Sort Of)

2006-10-15T22:12:00.000+08:00

Today I went to Pak Tedy’s house for some good old fashioned home cooking—following the daily fast of course. Due to the lack of food in my house I was all set to fast as well—I cheated in the morning with a cup of coffee (but only because Pak Tedy was two hours later picking me up!) but I didn’t eat anything.

Instead of going right to his house we went to Malang Town Square (people in Indonesia often take you on their daily errands like grocery shopping and laundry without a second thought) and I was somehow charged with picking out the ingredients for traditional Indonesian food. I picked out chicken and a durian, the national fruit of Indonesia that smells suspiciously like rancid road kill. I had never tried it before, nor had I ever fasted for an entire day…

Then lunchtime came and Ibu Tedy put a delicious plate of French fries straight from the oil in front of me. I protested weakly, and then ate more French fries than anyone should ever permit themselves in one sitting. I also ate some tempe (fried soy beans) and tahu (fried tofu). Who sees the common theme in these foods?

Apparently the rainy season started TODAY, because right as we were leaving to practice riding motorcycles it started to downpour. It was so intense that you just heard a steady pounding on the roof. I assumed motorcycle riding was shelved, but no! We just rode them through the different rooms of the house practicing hairpin turns. Very resourceful.

After that I watched Malang TV for a while, which was showing a rather fascinating documentary on berang-berang, or otters. I found it interesting that the singular TV station for the town of Malang was broadcasting a two hour show on otters during the day on Sunday, but maybe otters are really important here. Halfway through the program Pak Tedy’s nieces insisted I take a nap and I didn’t want to deny them, so I slept for an hour or so.

Layne came over before dinner and the rain stopped, so we went to the parking lot of a mosque and practicing shifting and using our brakes. We’ve been riding motorcycles for three weeks now and today was the first time anyone told us that there is a foot brake in addition to the handbrake. I’d been wondering why I kept skidding out and coming perilously close to hitting walls when I try to stop. We raced around for about an hour, to the endless amusement and chagrin of several boys dressed in prayer attire who were waiting to pray Mahgrib. They thought we were hysterical at first, but after a few skids and close calls, they sat and watched us with trepidation, screaming “hati-hati!” (caution!) if we started to come anywhere near them. They gave me a safety lecture when I was done. They were about fifteen.

Buka puasa was a bit of a letdown. I had thought there would be some whole song and dance, maybe some prayers or chanting to celebrate the end of the fast, but people just waited until 5:35, loaded up their plants, and chowed down—two minutes later they were watching TV. Layne and I confronted our durian fears and dug in. As we said to Ibu Tedy, “kami suka ini, tapi kami tidak cinta ini” (we like it, but we don’t love it). The first few bites aren’t bad—it tastes like a semi-rotten melon. But the texture is disgusting. It’s yellow and stringy with some mushy oozing parts thrown in. I started to feel worse the more I ate, so I backed off. I was prepared to say that it was no big deal, but now it’s been three hours since I ate it and I still have a nasty little durian aftertaste in my mouth. I might have to reevaluate the powers of the smelly fruit.

Pak Tedy and his wife very candidly informed us that “durian is power!” and it increased their libido—why else would they have five children? They thought that was hilarious (they also thought it was funny to give all of their children names that start with "A"). After many hints and many many family photos we were on our way home, with boxes of chocolate, durian breath, and promises to go everywhere from Manado to Makassar to Banyuwangi. Ah, family life.

Some Thoughts at 1 AM

2006-10-15T01:37:00.000+08:00

There are rats in my ceiling, and I can hear them running around.

Something bearing a very strong resemblance to a train just went down my residential street.

Reading the magazine REFORM (A MAGAZINE FOR REFORMERS) I came across this insight: "Men become addicted to pornographic materials, begin to desire more explicit or deviant materials, and act up acting out what they have seen." This in regards to supporting the so-called "Porn Bill" Indonesian legislators are trying to pass to ban pornagraphy. Comments, anyone?

Merah, Putih, Dan Biru, Seperti America...

2006-10-12T17:05:00.000+08:00

Here is my new baby!

A Delicious Salad Part II

2006-10-11T23:39:00.000+08:00

1. The dry season is ending in East Java and the rainy season should (hopefully) be starting soon. I know Malang is supposed to be “cool,” but it has been ridiculously hot here lately. I used to only sweat profusely in the middle of the day, but now every second I’m awake (and, I suspect, asleep) I’m covered in sweat. It has to be at least 90 degrees most of the day, probably closer to 95 at noon. I can only imagine what the “hot” cities like Jakarta and Surabaya are like!

2. So from what I’ve picked up, Ramadan is a holy time when Muslims come together to celebrate their shared faith. That being said, it seemed a little ironic that on the cover of the Jakarta Post today the headline was: “Crime ‘on the rise’ ahead of Idul Fitri” (that was also the way it was punctuated and capitalized). The first sentence reads: “A criminologist warns Jakarta’s crime rate will rise in the third week of Ramadan, when people need money to spend on Idol Fitri feasts.” So let me get this straight—to celebrate the end of the month where they’re celebrating their shared faith, people are going to steal from one another to have giant individual parties? Weird.

3. This week I’ve been proctoring mid-term exams for the students. I was under the impression that I could read magazines and listen to my ipod, but apparently you’re supposed to actually WATCH the students the whole time. Who knew. So, I was dutifully staring at a grade 12 class on Monday when I noticed that most of them were staring at me instead of their tests. I don’t teach year 12, so I guess my shine is still pretty strong for them. When I would look to the right, the kids in the middle and left would stare; when I turned, they looked back down at their papers. They were really fascinated by what I was doing—and who can blame them. For three hours, I: picked my nails, braided my hair, sent text messages, and created fans out of scrap paper. Pretty good stuff.

4. After proctoring yesterday, I was hanging around the school with nothing to do—because apparently now I’m on vacation again for 6 days. Pak Tedy stumbled upon me and decided we should go buy a motorcycle. I didn’t have any money, but that was OK—we got into his car, drove to the Honda dealership, and now I am the proud owner of a brand new, red, white and blue Honda Suprafit. I also have a pretty serious helmet, windbreaker, and gloves that all say Honda. Today I had my first official lesson from the school, which consisted of: getting on the motorcycle, turning it on, putting the kickstand down, and turning it off. I’m really good at pressing the ignition button and turning the bike on—I suspect I’m going to be a biker chick in no time.

5. Pak Tedy seems determined to find me a Javanese boyfriend and since I’m pretty sure the language barrier is going to prevent that from happening, I play along. He was really excited about a prospect the other day:

PT: Caitlin, my friend who is very handsome wants to meet you.
Me: Hmm, OK, what does he do?
PT: Yes.
Me: That wasn’t a yes or no question…umurnya? (How old is he?)
PT: 35.
Me: Um, what? I don’t want a 35 year old pacar (boyfriend/girlfriend).
Suharyadi: No, it’s OK. Younger women marry older men here.
Me: Yeah, I’m not really into that. What would we have in common?
S: You could get married.
Me: OK true, we could have that in common. What does he look like?
PT: He has brown skin and a mustache.
Me: Gross, no mustaches. I hate them.
They stare at me and I belatedly realize they both have mustaches.
Me: I mean, for a boyfriend…they’re really cool in general. I wish I had a mustache.
Everyone smiles.
PT: So you want to meet him?
Me: Umm…munkin nanti (maybe later).

Later in the same discussion I said I wanted to be an istri muda (young bride), and everyone in the office laughed. Turns out that istri muda here means the second wife a man takes after his first has given birth to all his children. She’s usually younger than me, capped around 21. Suharyadi kindly informed me I could not really be an istri muda anymore. Oh damn, and I had my heart set on marrying a man twice my age who already has a wife and four kids. Better think of plan B.

6. I have a confession to make: sometimes I listen to Islamic prayer music by myself in my house…and I sing along. My favorite song is called “Thank You Allah,” by Raihan. It’s a hot track. In my itunes, Raihan comes right after R. Kelly, “Bump N’Grind.” It’s an interesting transistion.

7. CULTURE SHOCK ALERT:

Indonesian KFC does not have biscuits

Indonesian McDonald’s does not have Sweet n’ Sour sauce

More Themed Writing

2006-10-08T14:27:00.000+08:00

A few weeks ago I wrote about how I had my students compose lists of words they knew in Indonesian and English for me to study. Around the same time, I was noticing how many of them believe in ghosts. Well, I just found one vocab list that combines both of these:
die: mati
mortality: kematian
dead man: mayat
graveyard: kuburan
frog: katak
ghost: hantu
hell: neraka
paradise: surga
paranormal: dukun
god: dewa/tuhan
transitory: kefanaan
I'm mostly just impressed that she knew the word transitory.

Pesar Burung

2006-10-08T00:14:00.000+08:00

Layne and I went to the Malang bird (and other animal) market this morning. Here's picture of one of the many pet squirrels (?) running around the market. The following is a partial list of the animals we saw:
various bird species I don't know the name for
baby chicks dyed pink, green, and yellow
giant ravens
HUGE cats from Norway--I thought they were baby tigers when I first saw them...they're triple the size of normal cats
monkeys
squirrels
grubs
rabbits with very veiny ears
scorpions in a cage with no top
fish
one lone puppy--we played with him for a while, but it was hard to get past the giant dead turtle on top of his cage
an extremely large lizard of some sort that was not caged
many snakes
huge turkeys crammed into tiny cages
the largest bats I've ever seen, hanging upside down in their cages--they were bigger than most cats (although not the HUGE cats mentioned earlier on this list)
some kind of weasel/ferret animals
doves, pigeons, very dirty ducks
Some of the animals were in cages, some illin out...there were a few snakes out, squirrels and birds hanging around, and of course, the giant lizard. I really loved the puppy and wanted to take him home, but the owners of my house are Muslim and think dogs are unclean--so I might have to settle for one of the HUGE cats instead.

Confrontation at Plaza Dieng

2006-10-06T22:12:00.000+08:00

My first day in Malang (and even during orientation in Jakarta) certain rules regarding male/female interactions in Indonesia were made very clear. Men cannot be in your house alone with the door shut, they shouldn't be in your house after dark, and you shouldn't go over a man's house alone. Some cities are definitely more liberal than others, but Malang is pretty conservative. My neighbors and the teachers are my school have told me that "things aren't like America here" and "my boyfriends" (special emphasis was placed on the plural) shouldn't sleep over my house. It's pretty obvious what their preconceptions of Americans girls are.
I mean, I'm fine with the guidelines--this is a Muslim community, and there are certain behaviors that everyone knows about...which is why is makes me SO ANGRY when some Indonesian men try to get me to violate the rules. Once they hear I'm from America, the next question is almost always, "Can I have your handphone number?" After I say my phone is from the US Embassy and only for emergencies, then it moves to, "What is your address? Let's go to your house and talk." It really makes me feel sick sometimes, because obviously these men have watched American movies or heard rumors about sex-crazed American women and they think that I'll do anything. At Plaza Dieng today (Malang's poor imitation of a strip mall), I finally summoned all my Indonesian and had it out with one of these men:
Note--this conversation takes place in very slow Indonesian, some broken English, and some forceful pantomime on my part. This man chased me across the street and up the mall stairs to talk to me.
Man: Where are you from?
Me: America.
Man: What's your name?
Me: Caitlin...(awkward silence) What's yours?
Man: Willy
Me: Senang bertemu Anda...Saya tidak tahu Bahasa Indonesia (nice to meet you; I don't know Indonesian).
Willy: I like your hair.
Me: Thanks...OK Willy, I'm going to get a manicure.
Willy: Do you want to meet up later?
Me: Ummm...saya tidak mengerti (I don't understand--even though I obviously had)
Willy: Me, and you, go to your house now.
Me: Apa? Kenapa? (why)
Willy: To hang out...
Me: My neighbors said I can't have men over my house.
Willy: Tidak apa-apa (no problem), come to my house.
Me: (losing my temper) Why you say that to me? If I Indonesian girl, you don't say that to me.
Willy: Apa?
Me: Anda tahu yang tidak benar (you know that's not right).
Willy: You are talking about the Javanese way. I'm from Papua. Papuans can go to your house.
Me: Do you think I'm stupid? Anda tidak bagus (you not good).
Willy: Come on...
Me: You are saying this because I'm foreign. Saya sedih dan marah (I'm sad and mad--the most forceful words I know).
Willy: You are not Javanese. Come to my house.
Me: I am Javanese for a year. (A lightbulb goes on in my head) Saya menikah (I'm married).
Willy: Tidak apa-apa.
Me: Saya tidak suka Anda! Saya tidak mau bicara dengan Anda! (I don't like you! I don't want to talk to you!)
Willy spits out a string of Indonesian and I run away.
I'm glad I at least said something to him. Maybe he'll think twice now before assuming all foreigners have loose moral boundaries. I have noticed that a vast majority of men who treat me like this are not from Java, so maybe the "rules" are just Javanese--but I like them. I think I'm going to buy a cheap ring and just tell everyone I'm married from now on.

Miss Caitlin the Communist

2006-10-06T00:52:00.000+08:00

Don't be jealous that my uniform is so cool...although Pak Tedy's outfit puts me to shame. This picture is also demonstrative of the extreme height differential between me and everyone I meet.

Linguistic Laziness

2006-10-06T00:46:00.000+08:00

I love my students, but some of the classes have to be tricked into trying. Most of the Indonesian English teachers always translate for them, so they’re not used to having to figure out instructions in Bahasa Inggris. Today we were working on listening comprehension using song lyrics. I very unwisely chose the song “Over My Head” by The Fray, which apparently was much too fast for anyone to understand. Nervous they were failing some sort of quiz, the students freaked out and screamed “APA?” (WHAT?) during most of the song. They know English but sometimes they just don’t want to use it, which can be very frustrating. Here’s an example of a dialogue with one especially unwilling class:

Me: OK, please listen to this song and try to understand it. We’re working on listening comprehension.
Students: Apa?
Me: Listening comprehension.
Students: (murmur to each other in Indonesian) Apa?
Me: Are you serious? LISTENING (mime sounds going into my ear)
Students: Ohhhh, mendengarken.
Me: What is menengarken in Bahasa Inggris? Say the word listen.
Students: Apa?
Me: Say what, not apa! Do you understand anything I’m saying?
Students: Yes, of course.
Me: Raise your right hand if you understand what I’m saying.
Five kids raise their hands.
Me: OK, great.

A lot of times they’re just being lazy, and I have proof. After pretending not to understand the word listen, I assumed they wouldn’t know the word disengage.

Me: (very slowly) disengage—do you know the word disengage?
Boy in front: yes, yes, we know
Me: please define it then
Boy in front: separate; not together; no longer engaged.
Me: (incredibly impressed) I cannot believe you just gave three definitions of that word. Gold star for you.
Boy in front: (frightened by his knowledge) Apa?

I switched to Beatles songs and they perked up. They CAN do everything I ask, they just choose not to sometimes. After we had figured out the lyrics to “Hello, Goodbye,” I asked if they wanted to sing the song together (most of them had been singing it anyway). They said no, which was fine, and then someone called my name in the hallway so I left for a second. I think the poor kids though I left because I was mad they wouldn’t sing, because when I came back in a minute later, they broke into a warbling and off-key version of The Beatles, looking at me anxiously. Adorable.

Ramadan

2006-10-06T00:40:00.000+08:00

The Islamic fasting month of Ramadan began almost two weeks ago. Until Lebaran and Idhul Firtri, the holy days marking the end of the fast, Muslims cannot eat, smoke, or engage in impure thoughts or actions during the day. I learned about Ramadan in elementary school (where I remember believing that Muslims didn’t eat anything for a month), but unless you’re in a Muslim country you don’t realize what a giant deal it is. The mosques, my ever-present alarm clock, now operate almost all day long. The teachers at my school explained that because of the piety required for fasting month, extra Arabic prayer and Indonesian sermons are broadcast throughout the day.

At 3 am, most Muslims wake up and eat a huge breakfast to last them until 5:30 pm, when it is time to pray Mahgrib and buka puasa, or break open the fast. Like I wrote earlier about my trip to Bali, at 3:30 am the streets near me are full of people chatting and dressed for the day, eating, hanging out, and selling food from their warungs. They might sleep for another hour after breakfast, but since morning prayer is at 4:30, there really isn’t much more time before they have to be up for good. If you choose sleep over breakfast, like Suharyadi did the other day, then you’re out of luck—no food or water until dusk.

It’s strange to see brands I consider American, like McDonald’s and Aquafina, showcase ads and commercials for Selamat Puasa (good fasting). McDonald’s has a whole separate campaign which focuses on getting people to break the fast with their fast food. It kind of reminds me of the ridiculous McDonald’s commercials from the US a few years ago, when they tried to get high schoolers to eat McDonald’s after their proms. Everyone in the Indonesian ads are stuffing their faces with McDonald’s after fasting all day, smiling and chatting at they pound giant sodas and nasi putih. The ads for bottled water usually just showcase people tearing the wrapping off the top of a bottle with a sigh of relief and pouring water down their throats at the end of the day. Very interesting. I also see billboards for medicine that helps promote “jadi puasa penyakitan,” or healthy fasting (healthy fasting seems like an oxymoron to me, but what do I know?).

I try to respect the teachers and students at my school by not eating or drinking anything while I’m there. But sometimes the teachers insist that I drink water, and then stare at me while I do it. I asked Suharyadi the other day if he thought I was weak for having to drink during the day, and he admitted that yes, he did. So I almost think that watching me drink or eat something makes the people who choose to fast feel prouder of their endurance. I mean, I’m not from a tropical climate! I have no idea how the kids can sit in all class all day without even drinking water, but I guess they’ve been doing it since they were young. The year you first make it through a day without eating is considered a very proud time in a child’s life, and lots of children ask their parents to be allowed to fast for the whole month—according to Ibu Moerdiati. Some of my students seem less than pleased to be deprived all day. I want to ask them about it, but I feel like it’s a touchy subject.

The reason I’ve had so many days off recently is because the first week of Ramadan was spent studying the Qu’ran and practicing various prayers and practices Muslims need to know when they make the pilgrimage to Mecca. I went and watched one day and it was really fascinating. It’s disconcerting for me to see my goofy students, the ones who laugh and make fun of each other (and me!) act so pious and prayful. Sometimes I look into the musholla (prayer room) at school and the students inside are so deeply engaged in the prayers and rituals they don’t even see me. Again, this is not a blanket statement—there are some kids who just seem to be going through the motions, and would rather have the days off than spend them studying their (their parents’?) religion.

Pak Tedy has asked me if I want to buka puasa at his house next week, and I think I’m going to. That would mean fasting for a few days, but I’m out of food in my house anyway and it’s an excuse not to go to the grocery store. Also, I’ve been wanting to get up and go eat breakfast on the streets at 3 am—so I think this weekend I’m going to try it out. I just need to brace myself for the stares and giggles—some people think it’s unbearably funny to see me eat from the street stands.

Apparently for Lebaran, SMA 3 has some kind of celebration at the school that I was invited to. I’m not sure exactly what is being celebrated and what we’re going to do, but I think it might be a final night of breaking fast together. Part of Lebaran is getting new clothes (?) so today Principal Tri bought me a SWEET turquoise batik outfit. I’m taking it to a tailor this weekend, but it’s going to be unbelievably funny—the top is covered with lacy flowers and the bottom is batik print. Like most of the clothes the school gives me, it’s extremely form-fitting—I can’t wait to prance around in it. Selamat Puasa!

Ubud Writer's and Reader's Festival

2006-10-04T15:17:00.000+08:00

A few months ago, I read in a tour book about the Ubud Writer’s and Reader’s Festival, a four day international event held in Ubud, Bali for the past two years. When I found myself an hour away the morning of the conference, I escaped the temptation of the beach and journeyed northward. John, Deanna, and Nick decided to come with me, so we hopped into one of the magical Indonesian vans that take you anywhere. Like most van trips I’ve taken here, the ride to Ubud featured beautiful rice paddies and great views. We arrived about 20 minutes before the first session we wanted to attend. It was pretty pricey by Indonesian standards, but since we had our visas to show we were living in the country for a while, we got a discounted price (Rp. 50,000 per session, or $5).

The first session we went to was called “After the Wave” and it was about the ongoing process of rebuilding and recovering after the December 2004 tsunami. First they showed the photographs of John Stanmeyer, a famous photographer who had taken pictures at various sites in Aceh (the province hit most severely by the wave) right after the tsunami and then one year later. It was really striking to see the photos juxtaposed next to one another—for example, one was of children running across a field to get food and supplies from an aid helicopter, and the second (or “after”) picture was of children running across the field again, but this time simply chasing after the ball they were playing with. Some of the other pictures featured freshly dug graves; then a year later, the same spot overrun with grass and flowers.

After the photos, two Achenese poets read some of their work. The first poet, Fozan Santa, had written a series of poems labeled “Black Water” about the tsunami. I could only understand the translations, which were fairly simple, but the poems were much more rhythmic in Bahasa Indonesia. The second poet, Reza Idria, read only one poem, also about the tsunami. Both of the poets talked about how, after the tragedy, they saw their focus in writing shift away from the conflict in Aceh and toward rebuilding. Prior to the tsunami, for 29 years Aceh had been experiencing severe civil unrest as the province attempted to split from Indonesia and become its own independent nation. In August 2005, about 8 months after the tsunami, Indonesia and Aceh brokered a peace deal that has lasted just over one year. In fact, the President of Indonesia, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, is currently considered a front runner for the Nobel Peace Prize for his role in bringing about the agreement.

The moderator asked if Fozan thought the peace had come about as a result of the Achenese pulling together after the tsunami. He very honestly answered that no, he thought that having the attention of the world focused on Banda Aceh for the tsunami aid efforts simply made it impossible for the government on either side to continue their bloody war against one another. I thought both poets raised some excellent points about foreign aid to the victims as well as the role of writers in portraying the feelings of their people. Recently, the head of a giant company responsible for rebuilding much of the province was taken hostage by disgruntled survivors whoaren't pleased with the pace of the rebuilding process. The poets saw events like that as the reason they must continue to write for their province.

After the Achenese poets spoke, the attention turned to Elmo Jayawardena, the head and founder of the Sri Lankan organization AFLAC (The Association for Lighting a Candle). After the initial shock of the disaster wore off in January of 2005, Elmo started AFLAC for orphaned children. He told one story about a boy he found by the shores of Sri Lanka:

“This boy’s father had been swept away in the tsunami, and his mother had been driven mad by the tragedy. He was a little boy, only six years old, with two younger brothers to care for. Every time I looked at him in January, he just cried, and cried, and cried. In April, when we went back to monitor the programs and check on the progress, we saw the little boy again. And every time you looked at him, he just cried, and cried, and cried. And that is the tsunami.”

The quote for Elmo’s association is: “It is better by far to light a solitary candle than to curse the darkness.” His individual work in creating the organization, which also works to teach swimming to poor Sri Lankans who live by the coast, is really a testament to that motto. I found him an incredibly inspiring and kind man, and I talked to him briefly after the session about teaching English as a foreign language.

The second session was a panel discussion about the emerging role of South East Asia as a global power and the possibility of a reemergence of literature from that part of the world. The panelists debated the issue of post-colonial literature and generally blasted the concept. People from the audience got involved and it was a pretty lively debate. One of the panelists, Suketu Mehta, just published a novel called Maximum City about Bombay. I bought him a drink after the session, and it turns out he went to the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop as well as served on the admissions board there—so for the price of a $2 Bali Hai beer, I got some sweet insider tips on how to prepare my application. That alone was worth the trip!

The third and final session we attended was called “Footprints Across the Globe” about travel writing. It was interesting in some ways, but I don’t think I would read the books of a few of the panelists. After the session was over, we found our way to some sort of book launch/singing/free wine and food event down the street. Some Australian woman was launching her book and CD, both of which looked pretty terrible, and then she drunkenly bellowed some of her own songs into the microphone. Delicious.

As it started to get dark, we made our way to the Ubud Soccer Field for “Skateboard Wayung Kulit” apparently a modern interpretation of the Indonesian puppet show. It was hysterically funny. Someone must have told the puppeteers that there were foreigners in the audience, because they pretty much yelled out any English word they knew at any point. There would be strings of Indonesian, and then “COCA-COLA!” More Indonesian, then “WE MUST DRUNK.” I couldn’t follow any of the storylines, but there was certainly no skateboarding involved—there were, however, some massacre scenes featuring wild animals and lots of hooting and yelling from the audience.

For the last event of the night, we went to Warung Opera for some kind of Indonesian poetry slam/gamelan music/chanting. I missed the first hour because I was so entranced by Skateboard Wayung Kulit, but I did get to see some funky music and chat up a really interesting dude, Bob, at the bar. Bob is about 60, has lived for twenty years in Bali, and for fun does things like build dug out canoes and sail from Bali to Madagascar to see how people managed to settle there so long ago. I got to talk to him for a little before Nick stole him from me, and Bob eventually escaped from our incessant questions with (I’m pretty sure) a fake phone number and vague reassurances that we could hang out again. Ex-pats are the coolest.

Tanah Lot

2006-10-03T01:35:00.000+08:00

The second day was more of the same in terms of surfing and nasi goreng. A man I had met on the beach the night before, Agung, told me about a ceremony that night at Hindu Pura Tanah Lot, a Buddhist temple located right on the beach. To commemorate those who died in the two Bali bombings, five thousand Balinese dancers (men and women) from various villages were going to perform the traditional Kecek dance at the temple at sunset. Apparently there had never been a performance of this magnitude. On a whim, we decided to go, and one of the surfing dudes from the beach drove us through beautiful rice paddies and hills to the coast just in time for sunset. In the next few hours we watched one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.

Since we were too cheap to actually pay for seats, the few first minutes at Tanah Lot were spent jockeying for good positions, running around the venue, climbing up poles, and going underneath the grandstands. I watched the beginning of the dance standing on the side of a cliff next to the water. Five thousand dancers in Balinese dress of checkered black and white sarongs, moved into position. Gamelan music was playing as the dance began with a small number of performers. When the sun started to set over the ocean the giant mass of dancers surged forward and the real show began. Here I’m going to lift a phrase from the CNN article about the event, since it explains the origins of the performance better than I can: “The Kecak is among the most dramatic of Balinese dances. Rooted in the so-called sanghiang trance dance and drawing on elements from the Hindu epic Ramayana, it is a mix of theatre, music and dance.”

For part of the tribute I moved away from the cliff and watched the dancers close up on a screen that was positioned behind the stands. The precision of the dance movements and the expressions of the dancers were very striking. It was incredibly dramatic to watch 5,000 people clap in unison and yell “Cak Cak Cak.” The music was very dark and rhythmic, and it stayed in your head. As full darkness came over the temple, all of the dancers lit torches for the finale, the triumph of Ramayana. At this point most of the security had abandoned their posts, so I ran down to the very front near the stage and watched as the event concluded and the thousands of dancers began to file out, throwing their torches into the ocean. Just as everyone was leaving and the tribute seemed complete, fireworks lit up the night sky, illuminating the ocean and the temple in an awesome finale. You can read more about the event here.

After our driver managed to pry us away from the temple, we drove back into town, ate dinner, and explored some of the shops and restaurants in the Kuta area. It’s always so cool in Bali to be walking down the street and see the offerings to the gods that are outside many businesses and restaurants. People place the offerings there several times a time, painstakingly constructing them from palms and filling them with flowers and other odds and ends (my favorites were the ones with Ritz crackers in them). Even in the middle of a huge tourist area, you can still see signs of the religion and beliefs of the Balinese.

A lot of Balinese men also wear their traditional dress around every day. This consists of a sarong, an (optional) shirt, and some sort of Balinese do-rag that I don’t know the name for. They sit around outside of stores and houses with their friends, just hanging out in their skirts. I really love it. Balinese people, like many Indonesians, are also very affectionate with their friends and family. It’s not unusual to see two dudes walking down the street holding hands or with their hands on each other’s waists. It’s just a way of chilling out and being comfortable with each other. In my school, the teachers always touch me when they talk to me. Some of the younger university students who teach there always hold my hands or arms when we’re talking. Since I’m not the most touchy-feely person it took some getting used to, but now I grab hands and waists with the best of them.

One more thing I noticed about Balinese men (besides how unbelievably attractive they are): in Jakarta, when men want your attention, they usually yelled, “mister, mister,” regardless of whether you’re a man or woman. In Malang, just “hey, hey you!” In Bali, the men have a greater variety to their greetings (maybe because of the giant tourist trade). It’s always nicer to hear, “hello darling,” or “come here, sweetie,” even if the speaker is only saying it to get you to turn around and buy some of his overpriced sarongs or take a ride on his motorcycle. I could get used to this.

Bali

2006-10-02T18:15:00.000+08:00

Pertama Kali di Sorga (First Time in Paradise)

2006-10-02T18:03:00.000+08:00

Getting to Bali from East Java is frighteningly easy. Step 1: Buy a $10 ticket at a bus station. Step 2: Get on the bus for 10 hours. That’s it. It travels from Malang to Banyuwangi, the coastal city closest to the edge of Bali. The bus drives onto a ferry, motors for 45 minutes, and then drives for two more hours to Denpasar, the capital city. The bus was so comfortable that I fell asleep after dinner in Probolinggo, another town near the coast in East Java, and didn’t wake up again until I had to show my passport in Bali.

On the bus I sat next to a very interesting character named Nana. She spoke excellent English (besides using the phrase “or something like that” after literally every sentence she spoke, and I’m not kidding) and seemed to see me as some kind of instrument for the purging of her soul. Ramadan began on Sunday and, as Nana informed me, followers of Islam should apologize to those they have offended and try to make things right. Stemming from this explanation, Nana talked for the next four hours about a situation involving her eye surgeon, his wife, and how the wife had disrespected Nana by showing disdain for her house and refusing to answer numerous text messages. I sat and nodded encouragement and reassured her that yes, it was rude to stop being someone’s friend because their house wasn’t as nice as yours.

I guess this response appealed to Nana immensely, because by the time we stopped for dinner she had invited me to sleep at her house when we arrived in Denpasar. I was about to say no—after all, in American you would never go to the house of someone you met on a bus and sleep in their daughter’s bed—but in Indonesia, there’s really no reason to refuse. People see having guests as an honor, and it seems almost unheard of that someone would steal from you or invite you to their house under false pretenses. I also hadn’t given much thought to where I was going to sleep or even go when I stepped off the bus in Denpasar at 4 am, so I said yes.

Once we arrived in Bali, I woke up and watched the people in street—and there were a lot of them. Although Bali is predominantly Hindu, there are many Muslims who live there as well. During Ramadan, followers of Islam fast from four o’clock in the morning until Mahgrib, at five-thirty. As we drove through the streets of Bali at three o’clock, it was like it was lunchtime. People were walking the streets fully dressed, buying vegetables, fruit, and favorite fried foods. Vendors had their carts set up and were doing business as usual. I had been wondering how food vendors managed to stay afloat during Ramadan, with no customers during the day and now I know—they just do a majority of their business in the early morning and after dark. As we pulled into Denpasar it was almost four, so things were starting to calm down as people went to the mosque or back to their homes to pray. I got into a cab with Nana, met her husband, and then slept another three hours in her daughter’s bed. At eight, Nana made me breakfast (even though she couldn’t eat) and I was off on my way to Legian Beach to met Nick, John, and Deanna, other ETA’s who had arrived there two days earlier.

My cab rolled down the streets of the Kuta region and then we drove along the beach. I know people say that Bali is overdeveloped and that the homes and hotels used to sit right on the beach rather than back from the street, but it still look pretty damn beautiful to me. Legian is north of Kuta Beach, the famous tourist area where two bombings have occurred in the past five years. Our hotel was really simple and great, no hot water or extra stuff, but it wasn’t necessary. It was about $9/night for a room with two twin beds and breakfast in the morning. I met up with Nick, Deanna and John and we went to the beach. They had made friends with the surfing dudes there (who were mostly from Java, but incredibly tan) and I paid for a lesson with Arif, one of the younger guys. Although we had similar levels of understanding of each other’s languages, he still managed to improve my surfing 300% in one lesson (although that isn’t really saying much, considering the level I was at before). The lesson was supposed to be an hour, but two and a half hours later I manually ended it when I bashed my face on the surfboard because I was too tired to push myself up anymore. After surfing we sat in the sun and ate the best nasi goring I’ve ever had, the only disturbance being the women who repeatedly grab you and plead with you to allow them to give you a massage. Later that night we went to a delicious dinner and a club up in Seminyak, but around 2 am the bus ride caught up to me and I went to sleep in my lovely hotel to get ready for another busy day of lounging.

Flashback: We Naik a Bus to Yogya

2006-10-02T17:19:00.000+08:00

naik: 1. climb, ascend, go on (up). Pesawat itu gagal—The plane failed to get off the ground.

Indonesia has a magical system of bus transport. You can buy a ticket from any reasonably sized city to another reasonably sized city, and for $9 they will pick you up at your house, give you a meal, and deliver you to your final destination. This system of mini-buses, succinctly enough, is called Travel. Layne and I decided to give it a try a week and a half ago and go to Yogyakarta in Central Java. Willow, another ETA, is stationed there for the year, and a bunch of other ETAs from Java (and one from South Sumatra) made the trek for a mini-reunion. Yogya is considered the cultural center of Java; it was also at the epicenter of a May 24^th earthquake that left many people homeless.

Everyone knows you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but when a bus pulls up and the name of the company written on the side is “Rizkey Travel,” that’s someone trying to tell you something. Layne and I had been deceived into choosing the front two seats next to the driver for their “safety” and “comfort.” As it turns out, the other six seats in the van recline and are fairly cushy—while the seats in front are located about 10 inches back from the dashboard and close enough to the driver that every time he shifted gears he copped a feel of my upper thigh. There was also a mysterious black liquid dripping from a murky bottle located under the air conditioner, but that was the least of our worries.

In Indonesia, passing on the right is so common that it doesn’t really elicit beeps from anyone. If the car in front of you is going too slow, then you just pull into oncoming traffic, gun the engine, and race to get in front of them before a truck barreling down the other lane plows you down. In this game of chicken, motorcycles are incidental—they have to move out of the way and onto the shoulder of the road no matter where they are on the road or what traffic rules they’re following/not following. We had about 100 close calls, but there were 3 times in the course of the 11 hour bus ride when Layne and I honestly shut our eyes and readied ourselves for impact with the 80 passenger bus coming 70 mph toward us. It was a truly matter of inches as we swung back into our lane.

There were several unscheduled and seemingly purposeless stops along the way to Yogya. Occasionally we would get a new passenger or some gas, but sometimes it seemed like the driver just wanted to talk to some random men at gas stations or rumah makan (restaurants—literally “eating house”) and smoke a cigarette with them. On the way home, our driver picked up a man (his friend, maybe) and we drove him about 20 minutes down the road (and out of our way) for fun. We also got out at one gas station to get money from the ATM and the bus driver took off again without us—luckily Layne was close enough to run and shout at him to stop.

Besides the excitement of transit, the weekend was great. Since we were all English starved, most of the weekend was spent speaking as fast as possible and filling each other in on school placements, houses, and travel plans. The first day we explored a little around Yogya, looking for some batik (Indonesian fabric painting). Having read her Lonely Planet extensively, Layne predicted that someone was going to tell us about the “last day” of an art exhibit held by “art students” and encourage us to go there. Sure enough, a man picked us up and showed us to a gallery that was showing various batik paintings. Coincidentally, it was the last day of the exhibit (although in all fairness it was the day before the start of Ramadan, so that may have been true) and started off with some ridiculous prices, seducing us with offers of tea and explanations on how to make batik. Luckily, most of us have mastered our numbers by now so we could bargain fairly well, although I’m sure we still paid triple what they’re actually worth. I bought a painting of red flowers that’s striking against the light.

After haggling, we decided to go to Borobudur, an extremely famous Buddhist temple just outside of Yogya. We started asking some dudes by the restaurant we were in how to get there. First they hooked us by showing us the mangled finger of one of their friends who had been bitten by a cobra. After they had our undivided attention, someone offered up their father as a chauffer to Borobudur, which was about an hour away. Sure enough, about ten minutes later an extremely large SUV pulled up and we piled in. The ride to the temple was beautiful and featured some fantastic views of Mount Merapi, a volcano near Borobudur that had been acting ominously earlier in the summer. It started smoking as we were driving by, and I could imagine what it must have looked like during the minor eruptions in May-July.

To reach Borobudur itself, tourists have to pass through the gauntlet of vendors and hawkers who block the entrance to the temple. The second we stepped out of the SUV, we were literally surrounded by aggressive peddlers of Borobudur booklets, wayung kulit puppets, and really ugly little Buddha statues (I mean really, Buddha didn’t even have eyes). You almost had to push them away to make any progress walking forward. I thought a giant Buddhist temple would be a peaceful place, not somewhere where you run the risk of getting clocked over the head with a badly painted Borobudur memento.

Once we were inside, however, it was definitely worth it. We hired a guide (Buddhi) and he gave us some history of the temple. Seen from above, the seven levels represent the seven stages of enlightenment in the Buddhist religion. Borobudur has undergone several restorations, and sadly, you can tell. There are some parts where the beautifully carved stone panels have been obviously misassembled, with mismatched bodies or no head at all. A few years ago terrorists placed a bomb on the top level, destroying some of the statues there. The dome has since been reassembled, now marked with a black star. From the top of the temple you could see Mount Merapi and other mountains. We were there right before sunset, and the views were fantastic.

The next morning a few of us tried to go to the foothills of Merapi to see the famous volcano, but clouds completely obscured the peak so the trip was not really worth it. We came back and walked around Yoyga for a while, and then everyone met up and ate a great dinner. A lot of people were staying in Yogya longer and then heading to Bali, but Layne and I had to work on Tuesday so we hopped on the bus at 9 am (after buying some oleh-oleh, bakpia, which are traditional biscuits from Yoyga) and traveled 9 hours back to Malang. All in all a great way to start off exploring some of the other cities in Java (as well as Indonesian transit).

Will Wonders Never Cease?

2006-09-27T16:41:00.000+08:00

Tuesday morning when I arrived at school after the long weekend, the kids in my first class told me that there was no English the rest of the week due to the start of Ramadan. The different classes were going to spend the week practicing hajj (the journey to Mecca) and studying the Qu'ran. I didn't think I could possibly be on vacation again so I asked some of the other teachers--yup, the rest of the week off. One of them took me to buy a bus ticket to Bali. For $11, I can sleep on a huge airconditioned bus that goes across Java, on a boat to Bali, and then finishes in Denpasar. I'll be on the beach in Bali tomorrow morning for the sunrise! I'm going to try to get to Ubud while I'm there to attend some sessions of the Ubus Writer's Festival. Hotels should be about $4/night. Unplanned vacations and amazingly low prices--who wouldn't love Indonesia?

Retreat From Sanity, Part Deux

2006-09-27T00:35:00.000+08:00

Laughing at schoolbuses, SMA 3 transported 900 kids 2 hours up a mountain in 22 military convoy trucks. That is, unless the students wanted to take their motorcycles (and a few friends on back) along the winding, pothole-riddled, vertical roads. That was allowed and even preferable.

Even though I insisted that I like Javanese food, the women who cooked for the retreat very nicely made me some “American food” at mealtimes. Each day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was given five (five) sandwiches made of bread, chocolate sprinkles, butter, and peanuts. They were enak sekali (delicious), but 30 pieces of bread a day was a little much. Everyone else watched me eat them and commented on how bread must keep Americans slim, so I felt like I was propagating a giant lie.

Day 3 was a little slow, so my attempts to entertain myself went approximately as follows:

07:00—wake up to the sound of the mooing cow next door.
07:30—eat five bread sandwiches.
08:00—fun with frying—make various shapes out of batter and boiling oil.
08:30—chase the chickens and ducks up and down the road.
10:00—give up on catching a chicken.
10:02—do a television interview about the retreat. Wardrobe—dirty red t-shirt and cut off jeans. Was asked to do the interview in Indonesian, but 8 seconds was too short so was allowed to throw in some English. Babble about loving animals and nature, while squinting into the sun. Everyone cheers.
10:09—drink Sprite and hang out on a bench with various village men. They don’t speak English, I don’t speak Javanese. We smile a lot.
13:00—first military convoy arrives for the trip home. I wait hopefully for them all to arrive so we can pack it up and go home. The final truck comes four hours later.
17:00—I get into my car. Along the way home we pass several students who are stranded because their bikes stalled out. We wave and Pak Tedy says, “Sampai besok!” (See you tomorrow!)

It’s kind of liberating to let everyone worry about themselves. Although it might seem like I’m complaining, I actually had a great time with everyone from the school—I mean, it IS a retreat, why have any rules?

Things That Should Concern Me:

2006-09-26T23:38:00.000+08:00

1. Riding on the back of a motorcycle
2. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with somone who doesn't speak any English
3. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with somone who doesn't speak any English into oncoming traffic
4. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with somone who doesn't speak any English into oncoming traffic with a giant hamper full of my dirty laundry on the motorcycle seat in between us
5. Riding on the back of a motorcycle with somone who doesn't speak any English into oncoming traffic with a giant hamper full of my dirty laundry on the motorcycle seat in between us and actually feeling like it is a normal and safe thing to do.

Retreat (From Sanity)

2006-09-21T21:33:00.000+08:00

The last three days I’ve been on a retreat for SMA 3 students and teachers in the mountain village of Bedhol. The experience was eye-opening in more ways than one—I saw how differently Indonesian schools operate as opposed to American, spent a lot of time getting to know the teachers and students, and was exposed to many more Indonesian and Javanese customs. The village itself was at the top of a mountain in an absolutely beautiful location—but it was also very poor. The streets were made of dirt and dust was everywhere, and the leader of the village told me that Bedhol was the poorest place on the mountain. Despite that fact, the villagers made us feel extremely welcome and opened their houses to us—literally. The students slept six in a bed on the floors of the houses, while the teachers slept 2 or 3 to a bed in other rooms—except me. I really think the teachers at SMA 3 believe Americans will freak out without privacy, because they gave me my own huge (comparatively) room while everyone else, including the principal, shared with at least one other person. I felt bad, but volunteering to share only makes people awkward and it’s not worth getting into.

Bedol is surrounded by taller peaks, and the villagers make their living by farming. There were cabbage patches, chili pepper fields, and lots of grisan (a type of flower) in the grrenhouse. It was hot during the day, but surprisingly cold in the mornings and the middle of the night. The streets were overun with chickens, roosters, cats, and ducks. I met the town "cow" (actually a bull, but no one seemed aware of that fact) and got to hold some baby lambs. It was far removed from any place I've ever been, but the natural beauty was amazing.

I’m going to write more about the retreat later, but now I just want to focus on one thing that really disturbed me.

After dinner and among-among (chatting) with the teachers on our second night, I decided to go watch the music and art festival the students were hosting with the villagers. It was held outside in the courtyard of the local elementary school. There were a variety of school bands playing first, and they were good enough that it was really fun to watch them (even though the songs were in Indonesian and I knew about every 10^th word).

After the music, some men from the village moved everyone back into a semi-circle. They brought out two drums, one large and one smaller. The boy behind me said we were going to watch some kind of martial arts. The next hour frightened me so badly I left the arena in tears. As we stepped back, all of a sudden students started pushing and jostling one another. Two men were locked together inside the crowd, one struggling to get free. From what I could understand, the man who was struggling was possessed by a spirit. Other men grabbed him and ripped off most of his clothes, and then the man fell down onto all fours and started creeping around the perimeter of the circle. His head kept lolling back and forth, and the look in his eyes was completely blank. As he crawled around the circle like some kind of weird spider-animal, another villager, acting as a tamer, came over and whispered into his ear. At this point, two men were beating the drums solemnly. I think the thing that made the whole experience so spooky was the vibe of the crowd. The students and villagers were whispering uneasily, as if just like me, they didn’t know what was going to happen next.

Just then, there were some screams from the other side of the circle as another man became possessed and spun around uncontrollably. Immediately five men ran over to subdue him, pinning him to the ground and taking off his clothes just like the first. At this point I was incredibly scared and asked the boy behind me what we were watching. Hs name was Bagus, and earlier that night he had declared himself my protector. I don’t know if this translated exactly, but he said we were watching an exorcism.

As the two men crept inside the circle and occasionally lunged toward the crowd, causing screams and pushing, the man in the middle whispered to them and tried to calm them by holding their faces. People on the sidelines petted their heads when they came by, like they were some crazy animals who needed to be tamed. While the two possessed men were going around the perimeter, the promised “martial arts” was taking place in the center. Men performed some karate and jujitsu moves as they mock fought with each other and moved in sync.

Halfway through this performance, another person from the crowd became possessed. This time it was a younger boy. All the students and villagers gasped and pushed to get away from his writhing and lunging body. I was scared out of my mind, and I felt the hands of the students on me, pulling me backwards. They were saying, “pray to your God for safety, pray to your God for safety,” and Bagus literally picked me up and tugged me backwards away from the possessed boy. Once I got back I started to cry because I had never seen anyone look the way he did. His face and body were so tortured as he threw his head side to side, his eyes flashing around but not really seeing anything. He started to foam at the mouth as he moved quickly but stiffly across the circle. Some of the students saw me crying and ran over to hug me, but they were shaking, and I could tell them were just as scared as I was. A bunch of the girls started to sob and the older boys had to escort them out of the courtyard. The students near me told me to leave, but I wanted to see what was going to happen next. Some of the girls held my hands and arms and whispered to me that it was extremely safe and they would protect me. Whenever the possesed men came toward me, I was immediately gripped on all sides and pulled backwards.

At this point, more villagers brought costumes for the first two possessed men to put on. One was dressed as a bull, the other a tiger. The tamer stood in the center and cracked a giant whip as the costumed men moved irregularly. I got another big scare when the man dressed as the bull lunged again, and it took three men to pin him down and calm him. There was definitely something going on with these villagers, they weren’t just acting. The crowd was on edge the entire time, as if most people were poised to run if something went wrong. Eventually the tamer cracked the whip and forced the possessed men and boy into a room out of site. The martial arts continued in the middle, but I had seen enough—Bagus and his girlfriend walked me home. I tried to extract from them exactly what had happened, but the language gap was too big. They used the phrases "genie" and "spirits," and when I asked if the men were possessed by the devil, they said no. I think they were in a trance of some sort, maybe brought on by the drums. The students I passed on the way home all wished me good dreams, but there certainly weren't going to be any sweet dreams after what I had just saw.

Phew. Anyway, tomorrow afternoon Layne and I are making an exodus to see some of the other ETA's in Yogyakarta for the weekend (we have Monday off because it's the start of Ramadan). I'm so excited to see another part of Indonesia even though we have to take a bus eight hours to get there! Be back Monday night.

A Delicious Salad

2006-09-18T18:22:00.000+08:00

After a few confusing weeks, Layne and I have discovered that Indonesians use the English word “salad” to describe pretty much anything that is put on a plate together. It could be fruit, vegetables, liquid—it doesn’t really matter. For example at the Tugu Hotel, under the category “Salads” is the following:

Duck Crepes
Ceasar Salad
Mixed Salad
Fruit
Pizzettes (mini pizzas with different toppings)

I mention this because I have some random thoughts to put down. Here, without further ado, is a salad of my experiences.

1. Andi and Inron, the two men from the school who come and clean my house twice a week, are really nice guys. They give me motorcycle rides, kill my spiders, climb into my ceiling to poison my rats, and feel comfortable enough to eat the food out of the fridge when I'm not looking. But my favorite thing about them is their flair for interior design. I think they must be into feng shui, because everything I come home and they’ve been there cleaning, most of the furniture has been rearranged. It’s a table here, a sofa there—but it always makes the house look bigger and more agreeable. If I move something they respect the decision for a few days, but eventually the offending object has to be brought back into symmetry with the rest of the room. I’m working on writing a note in Indonesian asking them to describe their methods—because they really have a skill for it.

2. Last week I asked the students in each of my grade 10 classes to write down ten words in English and Indonesian that I could study to learn their language. A lot of them wrote the same words—pen, beautiful, dog, etc. It was anonymous so that no one felt pressure to write really complicated words. Well, that may have been a mistake since I think I have a budding psychopath in one of the seven classes. Here, verbatim, is the list someone composed out of all the words they know in the English language:

kick: menendang
hit: memukul
run: berlari
scratch: mencakar
bite: menggigit
kill: membunuh
knife: pisau
gun: senjata
saw: gergaji
axe: kapak.

Themed writing, perhaps?

3. If you look closely around Indonesia, you’ll start to notice that there is an abundance of swastikas. Now, that might seem anti-Semitic, except for that fact that very few people here are familiar with the Jewish faith—in fact, the only thing they seem to know is that it’s connected in some way with the war in Isreal. They’re always shocked when I reveal that Judaism is a popular religion in America. So I finally asked Win Swastika (concidence, coincidence), Layne’s friend, what the four-pointed figures mean. I had forgotten that Hitler had taken an existing symbol and turned it into a sign for hatred when he came to power in the Third Reich. The swastikas in Indonesia represent the original meaning of the sign—each of the four points stands for a word. The words are love, life, light, and luck. It’s actually very beautiful when you think of it that way—but for most of the world it will always have the very different and dark connotation.

4. Tomorrow my entire school is going on a retreat to the mountain town of Betul (I think that’s the name). My information on this giant three day undertaking is extremely limited. Here’s what I gathered today:

When asked what I should pack, 99% of respondents answered, “clothes." The other 1% said “bra.”
We will be running in the mountains at 5 or 6 am.
We will be taking baths in a river
It will be nothing like America, but I shouldn’t be scared and everyone would try and help me (this was said very earnestly by an adorable year 10 girl).
We will eat rice.

5. Speaking of rice, I made an American-in-Southeast Asia faux pas today. There were huge bags all around the school that male students were huffing and puffing to move into wheelbarrows. Looking at them, I came to a valid conclusion—they must be bags of cement for some work in the school. I said to the female student next to me, “hey, where is all that cement going?” She looked at me strangely and replied, “that’s rice for the retreat.” Oh right—100 pound bags of rice. I should have known.

Air Tejun di Batu

2006-09-17T16:29:00.000+08:00

This past Saturday Layne and I went with Pak Habib to see a waterfall in Batu. We had gone with him our first weekend to buy flowers, but we went higher up the mountain this time. I’ve come to the conclusion that Pak Habib collects expatriates. Among the people he brought to the retreat were: Layne, myself, Max (an Indonesian boy), S. from Uzbekistan, P. from Slovakia, N. from Germany, D. from Poland, and H. from Russia. I refer to them by their initials because their Eastern European accents made their names close to impossible to catch.

I think we were expecting a small hike to the waterfall—but when we got to the camping site it was jammed. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people camping overnight and milling around the entrance area buying food, chatting, and shielding their faces from the giant clouds of brown dust that were everywhere. We walked a little ways up the mountain and realized that, as usual, we were an English teaching tool. Pak Habib had taken us to the campsite of about 100 first year English students at Universitas Mohammadiyah and put the foreigners into groups to speak with them. They were really sweet, as most people have been, and anxious to learn about America (partially, I think, because he had just assigned them a paper on American culture).

We started hiking toward the waterfall and I became aware of another difference between American and Indonesian cultures. In America, school-sponsored trips usually try to have some modicum of safety involved—whether it’s the location, transportation, or chaperoning. Not here. Pak Habib was the leader, and I think all of the students had camped overnight with no teacher (they’re younger than American freshman—some were as young as sixteen, and most were seventeen). The walk was pretty steep—people (including me) fell repeatedly down the side of the mountain we were trying to descend. The girls were wearing heavy clothing and Muslim head scarves, so it was difficult for them to balance. Most people had also chosen to wear flip flops, which turned out not to be the optimal shoes when crossing a river or climbing up a mountain. Girls were pitching forward down the mountain path as they walked and I would try to catch them, only to fall further down myself. We finally made it to the waterfall in one piece.

It was really beautiful, although smaller than I’d imagined. There was so much dirt around the area that the pool at the base of the waterfall was brown, but the water coming over the edge looked pretty clean. True to form, I slipped as I was going down to the edge to take a picture and almost fell onto the rocks at the bottom. Everyone shrieked at the thought of the boule hurting herself, but I reassured them I fell all the time and it was no big deal. Two brave guys went in and took a shower, complete with shampoo, but the water was freezing and we had to hike half an hour back and then ride two hours home, so I declined.

Walking back the sun began to set, and when we arrived at the entrance of the camp it was pretty cool (for Indonesia). We sat around for a while as some people ate, but Pak Habib strongly warned Layne and I not to eat anything or we would certainly contract parasites. The night before I had eaten a bunch of hamburgers from a street vendor and felt fine, but then I saw some of the plates they were serving food on and reconsidered. S., the Uzbekistani, said that he was in Indonesia to learn the language and work on translation. He said he spoke Uzbekistani, Russian, English, and was now starting Indonesian. Apparently he completed all of his undergraduate and graduate work in translation by the age of 23 and was working on translating English books directly into Uzbekistani, as opposed to English—Russian—Uzbekistani. Since his English wasn’t that great I don’t really know how well that project is working out for him. He also claimed that there’s a big Indonesian population in Uzbekistan, a statement whose truth I seriously doubt. He hit on the seventeen year old freshmen girls from the college and he was pretty sleazy, so I didn’t talk to him too much. He’s staying at Pak Habib’s for a year.

A guy named Curtis was also there. Curtis is from Texas, but he has been living in Indonesia for almost two years. Apparently his family pays for him to be here (which wouldn’t cost too much) and he just wanders around learning Indonesian and talking to people. He doesn’t take classes, just hangs out and visits different places and families. He was slightly odd as well. He asked me if there was a rich, high society contingent that lived in Rhode Island, similar to the one in New York. Then he asked what people did for fun there. In two years he’s been back to the States one time.

He’s not the only strange expat we’ve met. People who stay overseas for an extended period of time away from their home and family have something a little odd about them—whether it’s the questions they ask or the way they behave, it’s just strange to me that they essentially turn their back on their upbringing and spend their future in a place where, like it or not, they will always be a foreigner. Maybe they like the sensation of always being watched and standing out—I don’t know.

Anyway, the waterfall itself was beautiful and the hike was some much-needed exercise! The pictures are of me at the waterfall, and a view of Batu on the way up.

The Putus

2006-09-17T16:05:00.000+08:00

My adorable neighbors: Kiki (the boy), Made, and Esa (the baby)

Time Management

2006-09-17T12:06:00.000+08:00

Today is Sunday. Sunday is the only day Indonesians have off from work and school. One would assume they might sleep in. Here is the story of two American girls' Sunday morning in Malang.
(Note: I was sleeping at Layne's because we were being picked up there at 10 am for a batik expo.)
4:00 am: The mosque next to Layne's house begins playing call to prayer. Nothing unusual.
4:30 am: This may have been a dream, but I could have sworn some speech was given in Indonesian over the loudspeakers for about 30 minutes.
5:00 am: My cell phone rings. I pretend it's a bad dream.
5:04 am: My phone rings two more times. It finally occurs to me that there might be an emergency in the US and I pick it up. It's a boy named Jaya, a university student who teaches economics at SMA 3. Here is an approximate transcript of the conversation:
Jaya: Hi Miss America!
Me: What? Who is this?
Jaya: Jaya!
Me: Who? Oh, Jaya...are you OK? What's wrong?
Jaya: It's 5:oo, time to get up, Indonesians get up very early, time to wake up! (Another phone in the background rings. It sounds like he is at a concert or a party. He answers the other phone and I hang up.)
5:07 am: I receive an sms from Jaya, reading: Wake up in the morning good for your body. come on miss america wake up...he.he.he.(J)
5:08 am: I turn off my phone.
6:00 am: Layne's house phone rings. The second time she gets up and gets it. It's her grandmother calling from the US. Layne talks for a few minutes, then hangs up.
7:00 am: Her house phone rings again. We ignore it.
7:30 am: Her house phone rings again. Layne answers it. It's a teacher from her school saying that he is coming to her house to pick her up and take her on a day long retreat for one of the classes at her school. They mentioned this to her two weeks ago and she said she would go, but then no one said a single thing about it, including time of departure, until that morning.
7:34 am: The doorbell rings. The teacher is here. We are still getting dressed and trying to wake up.
7:35 am: Layne goes on retreat and I walk in search of a mikrolet.
I think sleeping in is one of those concepts that might not translate.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2006-09-13T23:51:00.000+08:00

Well...some of them. Here are four things that make my house in Malang different than anyplaceI've ever lived:
1) mosquitos: they are everywhere, they are huge, and they are loud. These guys can wake you up out of a dead sleep by buzzing in your ear. I've embarked upon a healthy solution--I spray my hair and pillows with DEET before I go to sleep so they leave my face alone. My legs, arms, and core are still fair game.
2) volcanic ash: I've never been much of a housekeeper, but when ash from a nearby volcano is coating my table and computer screen to the point that they're gray and no longer transparent, I know it's time to channel my inner French maid and attack with my feather duster.
3) whatever animals are living in my attic: I tend to think it's bats, but who can really be sure--something is scratching around up there. I get a second opinion tomorrow. Good thing there's a flimsy lock on my bedroom in case t's a rabid raccoon or something (although I don't think raccoons are indigenous to Indonesia--so it's probably just bats).
4) my baby lizards: as i type this I can see one running around outside the door. They're really little, probably two inches long, and I only see them if I catch them running out of the corner of my eye. They are nice houseguests, although if one runs on me when I'm sleeping I don't think I'll appreciate it.
well, sugung dalu, my mosquitos, bats, and lizards want to go to bed now--and since we all sleep together, it's lights out.

Supernatural Delight...

2006-09-13T22:52:00.000+08:00

Besides religion, there’s another thing many Indonesians believe in—ghosts. Here’s an Indonesian ghost story (non-fictional account?) as told to Layne as told to me:

People can go to visit shamen and “buy” ghosts—for a large enough sum, the shaman will give them the ghost trapped inside of a rock. The shaman summoned the ghost after 40 days spent praying and meditating in the forest. Once someone has purchased the ghost, it belongs to them and will do their bidding. Most people use the ghosts to steal money out of houses at night. In return for his services, the ghost expects to be fed breast milk by the woman of the house. If the woman doesn’t have a child, then she has to give birth to one so she can provide for the ghost. Of course, buying the ghost is not without its spiritual price—the act of owning the ghost guarantees that you go directly to hell. Shamen can be either good or evil—but buying a ghost costs you your soul.

This isn’t an isolated belief. I took an anonymous survey today in my class of year 11’s—the questionnaire was on things you might fear, with Yes or No beside each one. After they completed the questions, I collected them and passed them back out randomly so no one would be embarrassed. First of all, the biggest fear (before flying, heights, or bugs) was deep water. Turns out half the kids in the class couldn’t swim. But the real surprise came when we were talking about being scared of the dark. I said I was scared of the dark because a murderer might come get me, and asked why they might be scared. They all started murmuring that it was because of the ghosts. All of a sudden the goofing around stopped and it was very serious. They were scared of the dark because they believed the ghosts were there. When I asked how many of them believed in ghosts they just looked at me. It was suddenly clear that they all did. Every last one of them.

Later on this afternoon, I was hanging around in one of the offices after my classes waiting to be taken to the tailor’s so I could have my offensive skirt lengthened. I asked Suharyadi if he had ever heard about shamen selling ghosts.

“Oh yes,” he said, “certainly shamen can give people ghosts.”

“But what if they use them, do they go directly to hell?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, of course, right to hell. They had a ghost.”

This was all spoken about in a very matter-of-fact way. Apparently ghosts are people who are meant to go to hell but don’t want to leave yet. They are different than spirits, which are good souls that haven’t gone to the afterlife yet for some reason. I’m still trying to understand all of the details.

I asked if I could go to a shamen and Suharyadi became very nervous, like I was planning on buying a ghost and he feared for my soul. I was just wonderingif I was allowed to go—I really don’t think Javanese shamen and their ghosts are anything I want to be messing around with. Things were a little serious for a second—but then Pak Tedy started showing me how to do bird calls with my hands and all was forgotten.

Lazy Sunday

2006-09-10T23:01:00.000+08:00

Well...kind of. Lazy for my neighbors means up at 7 am instead of 5, so we had plans to go swimming at eight. Fortunately the street noises woke me up at 6:30, so the early alarm wasn't an issue. I went with Made and Miming to Araya, a fitness and pool complex about 10 minutes away from our neighborhood. We had a great time, spent three hours just swimming around and eating fruit. I showed them cannonballs and how to walk on their hands underwater, tricks that were met with wonder and amazement. There was a waterslide too, and I decided to go down on my stomach like Miming. Well, Miming is a 9 year old, 60 pound girl and I unfortunately am not, so I ended up rubbing off the skin on my hip bones with some exposed tubing. Felt great haha. The unimportance of time in Indonesia was demonstrated again today when we were forty-five minutes late for our ride home and no one seemed to care. I think the driver (some relation to the Putu family) was half an hour late himself. The downside to this attitude is that is takes FOREVER to do things, like rent movies. To rent 5 movies this afternoon took almost an hour because everyone just hangs out and chats and doesn't seem to care what time it is. I still need to shed my attachment to correct time and appointments.
One of the other teachers, Ibu Dwi, had told me that she was coming over today to take me back to the tailor's to collect my uniform. I had dropped the material off on Friday night, along with a horrible sketch of what I imagined the uniform should look like. I assumed Ibu meant sometime in the morning or afternoon, but she actually showed up after seven. Before we went to the tailor's we went to Matahari and MATOS to close down her two jewelery kiosks. Her husband, niece, and son were also in the car. When we finally reached the tailor, the two kids were asleep. No problem, we just left them chilling out in the car on the street while we went inside.
Now, I thought the purpose of this uniform was to make me look conservative, or fit it, or something. BUT the way the sketch translated into fabric I don't think that will be happening. The skirt is an A-line cut that is literally painted onto my body. I can barely move my legs enought to walk--and there is also a slit up the back! The top is a little button down jacket with short sleeves that barely covers the beginning of the skirt...but the best part is the GIANT SHOULDER PADS. I demanded they be taken out, but after negotiations and calls to other teachers who spoke some more English than Bu Dwi, I agreed they could remain on a trial basis. So from the bottom down I look like a cheap call girl, and the top up like Paula Abdul from an eighties music video. It really is one of the most absurd outfits I've ever seen...but I kind of love it.
After we left we went to a padang restaurant where they served food from Sumatra. Padang means that you get a bunch of different dishes and choose what you want to eat. Once again the whole time we were inside eating, we left the two sleeping babies in the car by themselves. I don't know how people can keep telling me that Malang is so dangerous when they leave little kids alone by themselves at night. The food was good but of completely indiscernible origin. So Ibu Dwi whipped out her electronic dictionary and translated what I had eaten:
ayam: chicken (that was fine)
some form of beef:I couldn't be sure what part of the body
liver from some animal:I took one bite and almost vomited, so I didn't ask
there was some confusion about a dish, and I heard the word anjing, which means dog--and I was horrfied that I had just potentially eaten a puppy. I almost started to cry and said "saya punya anjing, saya tidak makan anjing" (poorly spoken, means "I have dog, I can't eat dog." I should have said had...R.I.P. Patches Kunkel). The dictionary then showed that I HADN'T eaten dog, only cow legs. I never thought I'd say that eating cow legs was a relief, but...
I tried to be open-minded and try everything...but I did have to draw the line somewhere. You know those posters they show you in D.A.R.E. of the lungs of people who have smoked for years and died of lung cancer? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly what cooked cow lungs look like. I stared at them and even went as far as to poke them with my fork, but nothing less than $20 (maybe $15) was going to get me to eat them.
So it was an adventure. Tomorrow I really start teaching, so I need to prepare a lesson plan for my class from 12-1:30. It's almost September 11 here, so I'm definitely going to discuss that, no matter how touchy a subject it might be. We'll see how it goes!

Language

2006-09-09T19:16:00.000+08:00

I'm really starting to think that people in Indonesia have been blessed with tremendous language abilties. For example:
Everyone can speak Bahasa Indonesia, the national language. Bahasa doesn't seem too hard to learn (so far!) because there are no tenses and you repeat most words to make plurals. Those words are my favorite, like:
bunga-bunga: flowers
kadang-kadang: sometimes
anak-anak laki-laki: boys
Bahasa is fun to pronounce, but hard to understand when spoken really fast.
After that, a lot of people in Malang (which is in East Java) speak Javanese. Javanese is spoken by over 100 million people across the Indonesian achipelago. It is VERY complicated, not only due to the difficult pronounciation, but because there are three distinct forms of the language: low, middle, and high. Depending on the social situation, you have to use the correct form of Javanese. The Javanese I know so far is limited to:
maturnuwun or kesuwun: thank you (I don't know what form)
sugung enjing, sugung siang, sugung dalu: good morning, afteroon, night
sami-sami: you're welcome
Javanese words also start with ng- a lot, a sound I find impossible to make.
Besides these two, many other people speak their "mother tongues," or their ethnic language, like Bataknese, Muduranese, or Balinese. My nighbors Pak and Ibu Putu speak Balinese, and their kids, Made and Eka, told me it was so hard that they hadn't picked it up even after 10 years of hearing their parents speak it everyday.
After that, Indonesians start to learn English. By the time they take English in primary school, they're working on their fourth language.
And Americans complain about having to learn two!

I Wonder?

2006-09-09T18:43:00.000+08:00

Here are some of the questions I've been asked by various people since I've been in Indonesia:
A student in my year 11 writing class: "Do you believe that America is an evil country?"
An e-mail I received from a man who worked at the Aryduta Hotel:
"Syallom,
Cait, is it possible if i ask u about ur religion ? if not you may refuse to answer my question ok, sorry. i want to ask a lot about free sex, cause if i watch movie from hollywood, i saw that very easy for having sex in america, is that simple like that ? Especially on movie "virgin at 40" thats why i want to ask you about this.
C u next time
Fredy"
Teacher at SMA 3: "How people are atheists in America? No God?"
I really can't think of a politically/actually correct answer to any of these. I usually invoke the old standby, "America is a free country, you can do what you want," which doesn't really mean anything. Hard stuff!

Reflections on Religion (so far)

2006-09-07T21:36:00.000+08:00

Indonesia is 90% Muslim—in fact, it’s the largest Muslim country in the world. Like I wrote before, there are five calls to prayer everyday, and followers must wash themselves before every time they pray. It really is a lifestyle, more so than most religions I’ve been exposed to in the United States. The other day in Bu Moerdiati’s class, she was going around the room asking the students what they liked to do after school. I would say that over half of the class said they preferred to study Islam over sports, clubs, or hanging out. It was something they were proud of, guys and girls alike, and perfectly normal. I can only imagaine what would have happened in my high school if someone had declared they liked to read the Bible and go to Church more than anything else. And I went to a Catholic high school!

Today I was reading essays that Suharyadi’s class of year 10’s had written. The topic was “My Daily Activities.” Every single essay I read was focused around prayer. Examples:

“In the morning I wake up at 4:30 am to pray Fjar, then I go back to sleep.”

"In school I stay with my friends so we can pray Zuhr together.”

“I go home and pray Asr, then I work on my homework.”

“I take a nap and wait excitedly until it is time to prayer Mahgrib.”

“I pray Isha and ask for blessings, then I go to sleep at 7:30.”

It’s really very admirable and humbling to see the respect and reverence people have for their religion. The students and teachers at the school know that I’m not Muslim, but they have never forced anything on me. They understand my questions and answer them very patiently. I think they’re happy that I’m so interested. Like today, Pak Tedy told me he was fasting. I asked if it was a Muslim holiday, and he said no, he just chose to fast on Mondays and Thursdays because it took the toxins out of his system. Not every Muslim had to; it was a personal choice he made to feel closer to God. Whenever the male teachers are with me and leave to go pray, they explain where they are going, why they are going to pray, and tell me not to be uncomfortable. Of course I’m not uncomfortable at all, but I really appreciate how open they are about their religion and their willingness to educate me about it.

While I’ve been very favorably impressed with the morals and behavior of followers of Islam, I have had some weird experiences with Christians. Two of the teachers (that I know so far) are Christian. Since one of the first questions I was asked last week was my religion, word has gotten around that I’m Catholic. Yesterday in the teacher’s room, Pak Bambang (a very popular name here, it is NOT pronounced bangbang as I thought haha) sat down next to me and asked if I was Catholic, so I said yes. Then, in front of all the other teachers of different faiths, he exclaimed, “Ah! I knew you believed in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!” I can’t really portray his tone, but the way he said it he sounded validated—like he had just looked at me and known instantly I wasn’t Muslim. What if I had been? He started asking me if I wanted to go to church with him (I’ve noticed that people don’t distinguish much between different branches of Christianity), but I promptly shot that down by saying I only went to Church on Christmas and then he changed the subject.

I did go to another teacher’s church yesterday night to watch Bataknese dancing. It was reminiscent of Balinese dancing to my untrained eye (although I’m sure they’re very different!) with intricate hand movements and beautiful costumes. It also reminded me of Hawaiian dancing because there was a lot of emphasis on the movement of the hips. I met a lot of people who again, were very nice. Unfortunately I can’t remember the name of the teacher who invited me (!) but she told me I was her third daughter which I found touching. I was late because I couldn’t find the church, so she left the dance and came up the street on a motorcycle to make sure I was OK. I met her son, Ariel, and he invited Layne and I to come speak at his university about being ‘cultural ambassadors’ between the US and Indonesia. It’s funny because Layne and I don’t consider ourselves ambassadors, but we keep getting referred to that way.

Ibu walked me back to the top of Jalan Bromo so I could catch a mikolet home. She started warning me about giving talks—even though her son had just asked me to do one. It turns out that she didn’t think I should give talks at Muslim universities, like Mohamadiyah University near Johanna’s house. She was saying a lot of things about how it would become a political statement if I were to speak to Muslim audiences. Now my (and her) entire audience each day (students) is Muslim. I really don’t see the difference between talking to a Muslim group about teaching English or a Christian group about teaching English. She made Islam sound like more of a political group than a religion. Some of what she was saying was pretty paranoid and made me a little upset—she said that over the last 10 years, Muslims in Indonesia have been burning Christian churches down and killing people. I have no idea if that’s true or not, but the fact that she was trying to turn me against the religion and those who followed it was not appreciated. I told her I would keep my political views out of any talks I gave and that seemed to satisfy her.

Joining the Motorcycle Gang?

2006-09-05T22:27:00.000+08:00

Day 2 of school today and I watched two more classes. Thankfully, the first one didn't start until 8:15, so I could sleep in another two hours. The students in the second class were extremely talkative and spoke excellent English--even when they whispered in the back they were doing it in English. Halfway through, Bu Moridiati decided to tell me the history of SMA 3. Apparently during WWII when the Japanese took over Indonesia from the Dutch, the school had been a prison for Dutch soldiers. A camera crew from Jakarta had come to Malang the year before to film a documentary about the ghosts that still haunted the building. Then the girl next to me motioned toward the red and beige tiled floor. "That is the red from the arm," she said, pointing at the red splotches and making a slashing motion across her wrist. Oh right...blood. I looked closer at the floor and realized that it had originally been beige, but was now covered with the remnants of blood stains. Bu Moridiati just laughed and said they 'couldn't be sure' that those were blood stains, and then the class continued. But the more I looked, the more it sure looked like blood to me...

I had mentioned to Suharyadi that I wanted to ride a bike to school instead of take a taxi when I wanted to sleep in. I very clearly said sepeda, the word for bicycle. But I guess he heard sepeda motor, because around 10 he and Pak Tedy took me to the Honda dealership to look at motorcycles. In Indonesia, motorbikes outnumber cars and buses about 5 to 1. They can snake around traffic and pedestrians--more than once I had to jump off the sidewalk in Jakarta because motorcycles were using it as another lane during rush hour. I would NEVER ride a motorcycle there. But here, it really seems to be the only way to get anywhere quickly and inexpensively. Mikrolets are cheap, but can take triple the time. Taxis should be cheap, but I've found that they charge a minimum price of Rp20,000 for foreigners and refuse to turn on their meters. The bikes at the Honda dealership were smaller--not like Harleys or anything. They were about half the size and more like mopeds. They're also 1/3 of the price they are in the US, and when I leave I could resell it for 75% of the original value. A nice little blue bike caught my eye, but I decided I should probably learn how to drive a motorcycle before I invest in one...
So later that day I tested that waters. I went to visit Layne's house for the first time and took an odessey across Malang. Two mikrolets got me about a kilometer away from her house with no idea how to get to ikan nus 2. I waved my piece of paper with the address at men who were sitting and eating meat off bones of some sort. They offered me a becak (like a riskshaw except the 'driver' pedals you forward instead of runs) or the back of a motorcycle. I very bravely chose the bike.
Now I don't know proper motorcycle riding etiquette, but I'm pretty sure clutching one shoulder as hard as I can and screaming "pelan, pelan!" (slow, slow!) at the top of my lungs is not it. We were literally going so slow that the motorcyle was wavering from side to side and we could barely maintain our forward momentum. It ended up taking us almost 10 minutes to ride the one kilometer to Layne's house. She was sitting on her steps as we putted past at about 3/km per hour. I wish she had taken a picture.
We were feeling brave, so then Layne's neighbor and fellow St. Yousef teacher, Win Swastika (yes, that is his actual family name) went and got his mother's motorcycle to give us a taste. I managed to get on and putt forward and around a turn on my first try; I almost felt like this could be something I would be able to handle. Full of hubris I climbed off--except I had forgotten to put down the kickstand and the weight of the bike knocked me over into the dirt. I can just see that happening at an intersection in Malang in front of rush hour traffic. People think we are odd enough as it is!
So enough about motorcycles. I went to lunch with Pak Tedy and Suharyadi after scoping out the bikes, and there I made two grave errors:
1) I drank a delicious mixture made of coconut slices and some other liquid I assumed was coconut milk. Halfway through the meal Suharyadi informed me that they don't have coconut milk here and it was just water with the fruit slices. I saw the tap they were getting the water out of, and I feel confident in saying I now probably have about 1,354,345 parasites.
2) I made a joke about how I wished I had a uniform so I didn't have to buy new school clothes. It was OBVIOUSLY a joke, I said I wanted to wear a little tie and maybe some knee highs. Everyone laughed, it was a JOKE. But I guess some subtleties of my humor were lost in translation, because when I got out of my final class this afternoon Suharyadi came up to me with a big smile and told me Principal Tri was so happy I had decided to wear a uniform. I could have the same one the other women were wearing. Another teacher sitting nearby commented that I would look beautigul in the uniform. False. The fabric is a heninous shade of green that will only make me look jaundiced and the cut is extemely unflaterring (which I suppose is the point). I did manage to leverage my extreme height compared to the other teachers and extract a promise that I could visit a tailor and have it fitted to my body. I wasn't particularily pleased this afternoon about the situation, but the fact that everyone was SO happy about my wanting to wear a uniform gives rise to two conspiracy theories:
Either:
1) My outfits the first few days were assaults to good taste and decency and demand I be given more structure concerning my clothing choices, or
2) They secretly wanted me to wear a uniform all along but didn't want to offend me, and by offering to wear one I look like a team player.
I like to believe #2.

Who's Afraid of Public Speaking?

2006-09-04T22:10:00.000+08:00

I haven’t felt this nervous for the first day of school since ninth grade. I woke up around 5:15 this morning to steel my nerves and mandi. It was honest-to-god chilly in my house this morning—American-below-70 chilly, not Indonesian-below-90 chilly. Every time I poured a bucket of cold water over my head an uncontrollable huge shiver ran though my body.

By the time I finally warmed up and got dressed, it was almost time for my neighbors to come get me. I could hear Made saying “excuse me…excuse me” through my locked gate as I slathered on eye liner and grabbed my bag. Not being totally prepared made my stomach crunch into an even tighter ball.

Once we reached school, Made and Eka escorted me to the principle’s office and then the 13 and 15 year old left the nervous 22 year old alone on her first day. This morning was the school wide flag ceremony. All of the teachers and students arranged themselves into formations on the basketball court—about 30 teachers and 850 students. There was a marching/military group that made their way around the court at the start of the ceremony. It was interesting yet slightly creepy to see these young boys and the girls in Muslim head scarves marching so seriously and reverently in front of their peers. They raised the Indonesian flag as a choir of sorts sang what I assumed was the national anthem. There was a series of commands and statements read by members of the marching group, and then Principle Tri stepped up to the mike. He said a number of things I couldn’t catch, and then he motioned toward me and said my name. Everyone cheered! I waved and debated curtseying in my long pleated skirt, but fortunately decided against it.

THEN next thing I knew, everyone was motioning to me to go out to the stage. Suharyadi whispered that I had to make a speech. Um, how about a warning?? Fortunately I didn’t have time for my fear of public speaking to come raging back full force, and I just walked to the stage in my little white shirt, black skirt, and high heels (I mention what I was wearing because everyone else, including all of the teachers and maintenance workers, were wearing uniforms) and just freestyled. I’ve learned from going to other classrooms that you should always say that you are happy to be in a country as beautiful as Indonesia. That elicited a giant cheer. I said I was American. Another cheer. I said I wanted to help everyone learn English as long as they would help me learn Bahasa Indonesia. I said I was so happy to be at SMA 3 for nine months and then giggled nervously into the microphone. 850 huge cheers. Apparently at that point I was supposed to stay on the stage while someone led a military salute in my honor, but since we didn’t drill at my middle school I got confused and skipped off. There was a lot of motioning and Indonesian-speaking trying to get me back onto the platform, but I escaped to the side.

After my early morning embarrassment, I worked out my schedule with Suharyadi and Moedinari, another English teacher. I’m teaching about 18 hours a week, with some extra hours scheduled to help the teachers with their English. Indonesian teachers of course have to use the English terms to teach Biology and Physics, so the subject teachers were desperate for me to teach them some phrases. Lots of them came up to me just to talk and try to improve their grammar. I spoke to them and helped them for about four hours, and then I went and watched my first class. Ibu Moedinari showed me into a room of about 38 tenth graders who all cheered when they found out I would be their teacher. I sat in the back row and chatted with one of them during class, his name was Rizky and he was extremely shy. I told him Rizky meant dangerous in America and he had the coolest name I had ever heard. He blushed uncontrollably and smiled—I don’t actually know how much English he understood because he never spoke to me haha. All of the kids kept turning to look at me and there was an air of excitement in the room at the thought of a change, maybe less work! Bu Moedinari used mostly ditto worksheets to have them speak and write, and my job is to get them to focus on conversation. I want to start with games and move toward working together in teams to try and spark some excitement for learning English. My Indonesian has improved 200% just from the three days I’ve been in Malang and the more I learn, the more I’m anxious to know. I need to get them to feel the same way about English.

I went home around 1:30, 7 hours after I had gotten there. This week I’m just observing my classes, feeling what level they’re at and seeing the topics they have to cover for their national exams. They take the exams in year eleven, so I have to aim some of my lessons toward that.

Tonight Johanna, Layne and I went to the famous Tugu Hotel Malang. Every time we mentioned Malang at AMINEF the Executive Director, Mike McCoy, would tell us to go to Tugu. Now I know why! The hotel is partially an antique store, with beautiful pieces from China, Hindu, and Buddhist religions. We took a tour that led us through the Persian room, the French room, Indian, and various Asian themes. The walls are mostly painted red which seems a little extreme, but it worked because of the soft lighting and decorative wall art. They had some fabulous paintings that I would love to get prints of for my (as of yet) barren walls. We ate a great dinner in the French/Italian restaurant, and I carbo-loaded to make it through the next few days on fruit and water.

I had a breakthrough in Indonesian today. I’m forced to use it at school to try and make teachers understand English, and suddenly everything I’ve learned came flowing back to me. I learned some more key phrases like “saya pikir” (I think) and really started to be able to compose more complex sentences. Then, the ultimate validation: I had a heated discussion with a cab driver and two men at the Tugu Hotel in Indonesian, insisting my house was close to the hotel and that the driver should know where it was. In the car on the way back we spoke a little, and he told me I spoke very good Bahasa Indonesia! Excellent ending to the day.

Life in the Public Eye

2006-09-03T22:24:00.000+08:00

This afternoon, I went walking down my street to explore Malang a little (and find some of the watermelons I had seen on street stands, or warungs). Malang is known for its apples, and I finally ate one. It was good, very sweet and juicy—but I maintain that New England apples are better. I walked over a bridge and looked down into a valley with a river and lots of trees and vegetation right in the middle of the city. I tried to find a warnet (internet café) to get some cheap surfing time, but the directions the watermelon vendor gave me led to nowhere. Literally, the street just ended. Lots of staring, people beeping their horns and screaming hello at me. It’s a little strange not to be able to go anywhere without drawing a crowd—for example when I was buying apples, people came over to watch me garble my Indonesian numbers and not understand kilos. It doesn’t really bother me, just makes me aware that I can’t do things like pick my nose and hope no one notices—because they definitely will haha. The streets are really uneven and I was wearing flip flops, so of course I kept stumbling. People watching me thought this was by far the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. They point and laugh, even when I turn around and look at them. So then I just laugh too—what else can I do?

I went to dinner with my neighbors tonight. We tried to go to Pizza Hut, but that place was jammed. Thirty minute wait for a table! Pizza Hut is a sit down, kind-of-nice restaurant here. Instead we went to Steak n’ Shake, which I’ve actually never been to in the US. It was pretty delicious, or enak sekali, if you will. The mother and father are really happy I’m here and teaching English to their two older girls, Eka and Made. The youngest daughter Miming doesn’t know much English and she is pretty shy, but she managed to ask me if I liked Britney Spears. As soon as I told her I saw Britney Spears in concert we became fast friends. On the way home Eka told me I looked like Princess Diana, which is blatantly false but a lovely compliment nonetheless. When we got back to Mayjen Woyono all of the people who lived with them came out to see me—uncles, friends, some other young men—apparently they had been wanting to talk to me, but since we have no language in common I had to use my standard phrase of “saya belajar bahasa Indonesia, lalu kita berbicara” (I am studying Bahasa Indonesia, then we will talk). Pak Putu told me now I was a part of their big family, and they would all take care of me. Everyone was very genuine about wanting to make me feel at home.

Tomorrow is the first day of school, and I’m starting to get a little nervous about forty pairs of eyes on me! Made told me that my height is an advantage, so maybe I can stare menacingly down at any errant students. There is a flag ceremony tomorrow morning (first Monday of every month), so I leave at 6:15 am. Oh man.

Mandis and More

2006-09-03T22:22:00.000+08:00

Since today is the only day of the week most people have off from work and school, the streets stayed pretty quiet until around 7:30 am. I woke up at nine to experiment with my mandi—the Indonesian version of the shower. There is no showerhead, only a faucet with a square basin underneath it. It isn’t a bathtub, just a container for the water from the faucet. When you mandi, you dump buckets of the water over your head onto the floor and then it flows down into a drain in the corner of the bathroom. I got down onto my knees and investigated the slope of the floor, but I still don’t really understand how all of the water flows to the right corner of the room—it looks pretty flat to me. The floor dries about 20 minutes after you’ve “showered.” The water isn’t freezing cold, but it’s not room-temperature either—it’s somewhere in between. It was vaguely refreshing this morning, but I doubt tomorrow morning at 5 am when I get up for school I’ll be quite so enamored of dousing my whole body with buckets of cold water.

Johanna, the Fulbright English Teaching Fellow stationed in Malang, invited Layne and I to her house today to meet some of her friends. The ETFs work at universities around Indonesia instructing English teachers and improving the TOEFL scores and speaking skills of students in the universities. Johanna’s house was pretty far away from mine, and her friend couldn’t find my road to come get me. Thirty minutes and no cab either, I walked out to the main road to try and find some way to the other side of town. One of the blue public transport vans, or microlets, started motioning frantically at me and pulled over, so I hopped into that. Turns out I was on the wrong one to get to Johanna’s neighborhood, but they transferred me to the correct one. The vans have open back and side doors, and there are benches around the inside. About ten people can fit on them, but at one point a woman got on and basically just sat on my lap because there were no other seats. I finally reached Istana Gajayana and for the entire half hour trip the flat rate was Rp 2,000, or 25 cents. Apparently these little vans go over all Malang and up to the mountain towns for that much.

Johanna’s friend Pak Abib and his wife wanted to take us to Batu, a mountain town, so we could buy fresh flowers. We made our way up the side of the mountain in an SUV (a majority of people here drive the largest cars possible), passing more flower stands than I’ve ever seen. Batu is the town right after Malang, halfway up one of the mountains. We bought potted flowers and hanging plants, and for some reason Layne also bought a cactus to put in her house haha. For about $9 I bought two red, tall flower plants to put by my front door, a plant vaguely reminiscent of a poinsettia, and a hanging pot of beautiful purple flowers. I brought those to my neighbors when I got home to thank them for helping me set up my house.

Getting Used to Life Alone...

2006-09-02T18:43:00.000+08:00

I must be right next to a mosque, because the call to prayer was in my ear this morning haha. After it woke me up I was able to go right back to sleep—it’s just the initial start of the singing that jolts me awake. It’s going to be impossible to sleep late here (a good thing!) because the streets and people get so loud by the windows. Students in Indonesia have school on Saturdays as well, so around 6:30 I started hearing them head off. Luckily AMINEF made it clear to our schools that in America, there is no school on Saturdays. So we have the whole weekend off whew.

Pak Tedy and Surharyadi had told me to be ready around 9 or 10 so we could go meet the leader of the neighborhood. Indonesian neighborhoods are divided into sections, with about forty homes in each one. I found out today that each section has a theme, and the streets are named after that one theme—for example, Layne’s theme is fish (haha) and the theme of my neighborhood is heroes. So my street is named Jalan Mayjen Woyono, who was an important military figure in Indonesian history (so I’ve been told). That little bit of knowledge made understanding directions a LOT easier.

Around 11 no one had showed up to take me anywhere (jam karet: rubber time) so Layne called and said her friend Win would take us to the Malang Town Center (Matos) to get some things for our houses. I thought I had been stared at a lot in Jakarta. Wow. Layne and I were blatantly looked at the entire time we were there (it didn’t help I broke a glass in the Hypermart). It isn’t glaring, or weird looks—people just honestly haven’t seen foreigners for a while, if ever, and want to see how we are different. If you smile, almost everyone smiles back immediately. If you make an effort to speak Indonesian and say selamat pagi, or good morning, they really appreciate it. Layne and I bought things like blowdryers, toaster ovens,and trash cans—every bit of electronic equipment I brought from the US is worthless here, even with a converter. The different voltages blow the fuses. Luckily my computer charger works, but that’s the only thing.

We ate lunch at Indonesian KFC (Win, like most Indonesians I’ve met, seems to think that fried chicken is an American girl’s best friend) and instead of biscuits, they serve rice. They also serve spaghetti and a strange soup. It was interesting, but a soda has never tasted as good as it did there. My ayam (chicken) was good too. It’s reassuring to know that KFC spells delicious in every culture.

I came back and unpacked, and then Suharyadi and Pak Tedy came over about 6 hours late. They never said anything, so maybe I misunderstood them the day before. We unpacked some more, they brought it a TV and a TV stand (even though I said I didn’t need it and it only gets about 10 channels, all in Indonesian or Javanese) and then I showed them my teaching books from the US. They were really happy and took them to be photocopied. There are no copyright laws here, and every book can be photocopied for about Rp 30,000, or $3. I copied a bunch of ETA’s books before we left Jakarta.

Suharyadi heard me talking about how I liked dogs, and he immediately offered to find me a puppy. One of the men from the school, Andi, who was there nailing mosquito net, or tirai, over the windows, said in Javanese that he could find one. Then my neighborhood, Bu Putu, walked by, and said that she had a puppy I could have. I went over and looked—this dog was hysterical. They said they had traveled to Surubaya, about two hours away, to buy it, but it looked like they had found it in the gutter. He was missing all the hair on his legs, and the hair on his body was long and matted. He was some sort of terrier, but I honestly couldn’t begin to guess. She offered the dog to me, but it was obviously the children’s dog! There are four children in the family—Eka, Made, Kiki, and Esa. Eka and Made have been coming over to my house to speak with me and practice their English—Made’s is very good. They are beautiful girls, with dark skin and long black hair. The Putu family is Balinese, which means they’re Hindu, not Muslim. The house I live in is actually rented from them by the school. Kiki is a six year old boy, and Esa is a beautiful baby with lots of jewelry. Brownies (the name of the dog) was Kiki’s, so of course I said I didn’t want to take him away. Andi is going to look for another puppy for me, and Ibu Putu said her family would take him when I went back to America. She asked me to help her learn English and if I wanted to go to their Balinese village next time they travel to Bali. Of course I said yes to both requests!

MALANG!!

2006-09-02T18:42:00.000+08:00

I am in Malang! The flight here was short and surprisingly not too bumpy—Layne and I flew Sriajaya Air, which had a different terminal and seemed slightly unsafe. Once we got above the Jakarta fog though, it was a beautiful ride. We could see the water and the coastline, and we flew past a smoking volcano! I happened to look out the window as we were coming into Malang, and a volcano was billowing smoke into the air. No one else on the plane seemed to think it was cause to panic, so I didn’t either—but we were pretty close to that volcano.

The Malang airport is only a year old, and previously used for military planes. So there was only one runway and the terminal was a small building with two rooms. We waited for our luggage to be “offloaded,” meaning it was driven to the side of the room we were in and dumped on the ground. Once we had our bags, we went outside to meet the people from our school. They were ecstatic to see us! My contacts were Pak Tedy, the vice-principal of SMA 3 Malang, Ibu Haryadi, and Suharyadi, a younger English teacher at the school that I’ve been e-mailing for a few months.

We stopped briefly at a mosque so Pak Tedy and Suharyadi could pray—it was Friday, the holy day for Muslims. Men must go to the mosque at noon, but women pray in their homes. I sat in the car with Ibu and used my limited vocab to tell her my age and religion (one of the first things she asked). The men only prayed for a short time, and then we drove to SMA 3. Malang is beautiful, full of trees, wide streets, and a cool breeze, thank God. One more week of Jakarta heat and I would have lost it. It’s surrounded by mountains and Layne and I can’t wait to go hiking.

We reached the school and went inside to meet the principal and some of the other teachers. The principal’s name is Tri Soeharno, which is funny because that was the name of Indonesia’s first president after they won independence from the Netherlands. He told me to call him Pak Tri though. He really doesn’t know any English, and he read a letter out loud that someone else must have prepared—it was written in English, but he didn’t know how to pronounce any of the words. There were a few other male teachers there, and besides Suharyadi, none of them knew passable English. And, to make things more difficult, they don’t really speak Indonesia either! They know it, but since I’m in East Java now, most people speak Javanese. I’ve learned a few phrases and it is MUCH harder than Bahasa Indonesia. The words are close to impossible for me to pronounce or distinguish when I hear other people speaking. I’ve gotten offers from a few teachers to teach me Javanese if I teach them English, so hopefully I can make some progress.

They told me they had gotten me an American lunch and then gave me fried chicken, which I thought was really funny. After we ate Suharyadi took me on a tour of the school. It’s very bright and nice, some of the classrooms are open air and there is a big courtyard/playground in back. It’s painted yellow and orange, so the sunlight illuminates most of the rooms. I met a few students and their English is really very good—much better than the people at AMINEF had led us to believe. I’m excited to work with them and try to help them to achieve fluency.

After the tour and a short walk around the block, I finally went to my house! Pak Tedy, Suharyadi, Pak Tri, and his wife all came. It’s one story and the floors are all made of beautiful white and pink marble. There is a kitchen, three bedrooms, a living room, and a greeting room in front. Two men who worked for the school kept running in and out, bringing in more furniture—I had no idea where they were getting it from. First they had a tiny bed in my room—smaller than a twin and too short for me. They asked if it was OK, and I said yes, but I guess not quickly enough…because they shouted a bunch of Indonesian and ran outside, and a few minutes later there was a queen size bed in my room. With cow sheets on it haha. There’s no frame so I’m essentially sleeping on the floor, but I think that’s how people sleep here so it’s OK with me.

Everyone is so anxious to please me, it makes me feel a little guilty. They want things to be perfect for me, and they really bend over backwards to help. We went shopping after setting up the house and they insisted on paying for me, even though I’m sure I’m getting paid much more a month by the US government then they make in a few months working in Malang. While we were out I met an Australian guy who just finished Mohamadia University, and of course since I was the only other bule he had seen in a few months, he came over and introduced himself and invited me to a party at his house in a week. Pak Tedy was really cute, he immediately pulled out his phone and got the Australian’s number, and then told me that I was like his daughter and he would protect me. He wants me to go to his house sometime soon and meet his wife and five children.

I spent the rest of the night organizing, but I’m still missing lots of things like a fridge, stove, dressers, and power strips, so there’s only so much I could do. The street is very loud at night—I guess I didn’t realize that when I was staying on the ninth floor of the Aryaduta Hotel haha. But the noise isn’t too bad, and the air is fresh, so it doesn’t really bother me. Around nine the power started going out sporadically, so I went to bed.

August 17--Indonesian Independence Day

2006-08-27T12:20:00.000+08:00

The last few weeks the city has been putting up tons of Indonesian flags (red and white), banners, and signs. August 17th marks the 61st year since the country won independence from the Netherlands. We had the day off from orientation (thank god!) and Ony took us to Ancol Beach in West Jakarta to see some of the activities. It took a long time to get there because of the traffic, and it was very hot. We walked on a boardwalk by the water and watched people celebrating. There were a lot of boats sailing around, and they had ads on their sides as well as on the sails. People were packed into them like sardines, although I've noticed that that doesn't really bother anyone here.
Farther down the boardwalk, hundreds of people were swimming in the murky water. It didn't look to clean, but it was so hot I almost wanted to go in. Almost. People were having picnics on the beach and many of them called out to us when we walked by.
We finally reached the end of the boardwalk where the main event was going on--the greased pole game. Young men were climbing on top of their friends and trying to make their way up a greased pole to reach the prizes that were hanging on top, like bikes and t-shirts. Everyone was yelling as the top man on each human totem pole would jump off his friend's hands and grab onto the wooden structure on the top of the pole. It looked SO dangerous to us, but I didn't see anyone fall and break their back. I took lots of pictures--when they saw I had a camera, people ran over to me with their new bikes and friends and motioned frantically for me to take their photo. Then they usually tried to sell me their new bicycle haha.
Behind the greased poles was an Independence Day concert. The bands who were playing were pretty good, but then they had some technical difficulties and there was a long silence. I couldn't really take the heat anymore, so at that point me and a few other ETAs went back to the hotel.
That night, I went with Anne and Layne to Plaze Indonesia for our first Indonesian movie experience. We made the mistake of going to see My Super Ex-Girlfriend (terrible), but the theater itself was super nice. $6 gets you a huge, plush seat in front of a giant screen. Apparently there is another theater around our hotel where for $9, you get a ticket and a personal butler who brings who snacks throughout the movie. We definitely need to try and hit that up before we leave!

Orientation

2006-08-27T01:26:00.000+08:00

For the last month, we've been going to AMINEF (American Indonesia Exchange Foundation) in Balai Pustaka to learn about culture, teaching, and as much Bahasa Indonesia as we can cram into four weeks. Bahasa isn't a difficult language, but there's lots of new vocab to memorize! There are no tenses, which make it a little easier--you say "I went to the store" and "I go to the store" exactly the same way. The words aren't too hard to pronounce and are actually pretty fun to say. My favorite word so far is perpustakaan--aka library.
For the first two weeks we also had culture sessions everyday. These ranged from lectures on health and how to avoid avian flu (a very scary one) to how to not offend Indonesians with our relationships (no one of the opposite sex is allowed in your house with the door shut). Indonesian communities are very tight knit and each one has a leader. As boles (the Indonesian word for white people) everyone will know what we are doing at all times. It's definitely like living in a fishbowl--if we meet with a friend and go to the movies, the next day people in our town will ask us about it. Some of the other ETAs seemed really surprised that they wouldn't be able to date Indonesians. I don't think they realized how extreme the Indonesian views on dating before marriage are. I was told before I got here what the expectations were, so I wasn't as shocked--but it IS strange to be 22 years and told that even another male ETA, if he visited me, couldn't sleep on my couch. It would look too questionable to the rest of the community.
The rest of the time during orientation is spent on teaching. The first few weeks we focused on speaking and using the white board correctly. The final days we're each doing individual teaching simulations where we stand in front of the other ETAs and present a thirty minute lesson that we would give to our kids in high school. It's a little nerve wracking to pretend to teach nouns to a bunch of kids with college degrees (and a few with their masters's!) but I really think it's helped to make us all a little more secure about standing in front of classes of our own in a few weeks.
Our instructors at AMINEF are really great. Our Bahasa teacher is named Ony. He won a Fulbright last year to go to Stanford and teach Indonesian there. He is really funny and sweet and an excellent teacher. He has a really endearing high laugh that makes us all burst into laughter when he does. Our teaching instructor is named Lusi. She teaches at the University and has really been very patient with us (we're not always the most serious in our presentations). She's worked all around Indonesia observing teachers and can tell us a lot about controlling a classroom of forty kids. It's going to be unbelievably different from what we experienced in our high schools--for example, even though these kids are fifteen years old, we're still expected to play games with them at the beginning of every class. They don't study English very seriously, and our job as native speakers is to spark an interest in them and try to get them to focus and have a goal when it comes to learning English. All I have to say is, thank god English is my first language--because it's so complicated to teach I don't think I ever would have learned it if it wasn't.

Jakarta: the journey here

2006-08-27T01:06:00.000+08:00

I've been in Jakarta, Indonesia for almost exactly a month now. The trip over here took three days, from NY to San Fran, San Fran to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Singapore, a night in a five star hotel, and then the one hour flight from Singapore to Jakarta on the third day of traveling.
Along the way I met up with the seventeen other English Teaching Assistants, or ETAs. We had never met before, so mostly I just approached people who looked like they were around 20-30 years old and asked if they were going to Indonesia. By the time we stayed in the hotel in Singapore, we had all met up.
The US government is not wasting any money when it comes to our accomodations! We were picked up at the Soekarno Airport in Jakarta by our coordinator, Nelly, and taken to the very nice Hotel Aryaduta in downtown Jakarta. We had all assumed we would have roommates, but no--for the entire month of August, we each get our own room in a five star hotel. Most of us had expected to be roughing it here, so that was even more of a shock than bad conditions would have been!
Jakarta is so different than any city I've ever been in--the majority of people who live here are Muslim, and there are five calls to prayer a day. Mosques throughout the city broadcast prayers and singing on speakers. You'll be walking down the street when suddenly the air will be filled with songs and the crackle of the microphones. It actually sounds very beautiful. The first call to prayer is at 4:30 am. It woke me up for the first week, but now I can sleep through it. The other calls are at noon (siang), 3 pm, 6 pm, and 7pm.
The people here have been overwhelmingly friendly so far. We're obviously foreigners with our light skin, so when we walk on the road people yell "Mister, mister" and any other English words they know. I always speak back, but "How are you?" is pretty much the extent of most people's vocabulary and then they just smile at me. The people at the hotel know a little more English, and they are always eager to talk to us and try to improve. They're all very nice and memorize our names and places where we go a lot, so that's been really fun.
Jakarta is very cheap compared to the US. They use the rupiah here, and there are about 9,500 rp per $1USD. A ten minute cab ride will usually cost about 12,000 rp, or just a little over a dollar. Split between four people, that isn't too bad! And it's a good thing taxis are cheap, because the traffic here is atrocious. The city was designed with series of one way streets with no turnabouts, so to get to an address on the other side of the road you have to travel all the way around a city block. The traffic from about 3 pm through 8 pm is slowed to a crawl everyday, and a ten minute taxi ride in the morning can take as long as 45 minutes in the afternoon.